For some minutes conversation was impossible. Heads
ducked to keep out of their faces the fast-falling flakes, they
trudged along in silence until within a few doors of Mother McNeil's
house, and then Carmencita looked up.
"Do--do you ever pray, Mr. Leimberg--pray hard, I mean?"
"Pray!" The Damanarkist drew in his breath and laughed with smothered
scorn. "Pray! Why should I pray? I cut out prayer when I was a kid.
No, I don't pray."
"It's a great comfort, praying is." Carmencita's hand was taken out of
her pocket and slipped through the arm of her disillusioned friend.
"Sometimes you're just bound to pray. It's like breathing--you can't
help it. It--it just rises up. I prayed yesterday for--for something,
and it pretty near happened, but--"
"And you think your praying helped to make it happen!" Mr. Leimberg
drew Carmencita's hand farther through his arm, and his lips twisted
in contemptuous pity. "You think there is a magician up--oh,
somewhere, who makes things happen, do you? Think--"
"Yes." Carmencita's feet skipped in spite of the clogging snow. "I
think that somewhere there is Somebody who knows about everything, but
I don't think He means us to ask for anything we want just because we
want it and don't do a lick to get it.
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