He came on Sunday, just before the time for evening services in the church, and kneeling at the old woman's chair, which he placed near her bedside, lifted his shaking voice in prayer.

It was a touching sight, one infirmity pleading for another, palsy praying for paralysis; but upon these devotions Brooks began to look with a frown.
"What is the use of it ?" he asked, speaking to his wife.

"If a celebrated specialist can't do her any good, I know that an old man's prayer can't." "We ought not to deny her anything," the wife answered.
"And we ought not to inflict her with anything," the husband replied.
"Prayer was never an infliction to her." "But this old man's praying is an infliction to the rest of us." "Not to me; and you needn't hear him." "I can't help it if I'm at home." "But you needn't be at home when he comes." "Oh, I suppose I could go over and stand on the lake shore, but it would be rather unpleasant this time of year." "There are other places you can go." "Oh, I suppose so.

Doesn't make any difference to you, of course, where I go." "Not much," she answered.
The Witherspoon family was gathered one evening in the mother's room.
It was Mrs.Witherspoon's birthday, and it was a home-like picture, this family group, with the mother sitting in a rocking-chair, fondly looking about and giving the placid heed of love to Henry whenever he spoke.

On the walls were hung the portraits of early Puritans, the brave and rugged ancestors of Uncle Louis and Uncle Harvey, and all her mother's people, who were dark.
Ellen had been imitating a Miss Miller, who, it was said, was making a determined set at Henry, and Witherspoon was laughing at the aptness of his daughter's mimicry.
"I must confess," said Mrs.Witherspoon, slowly rocking herself, "that I don't see anything to laugh at.