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looked at each other and then at David Dark, who was the only man in the clan who was known to have a gift of prayer. David Dark was usually very ready to lead in prayer, but he was not prepared for this.
    â€œDavid,” said Aunt Becky inexorably. “I’m sorry to say this clan haven’t the reputation of wearing their knees out praying. I shall have to ask you to do the proper thing.”
    His wife looked at him appealingly. She was very proud because her husband could make such fine prayers. She forgave him all else for it, even the fact that he made all his family go to bed early to save kerosene and had a dreadful habit of licking his fingers after eating tarts.
    David’s prayers were her only claim to distinction, and she was afraid he was going to refuse now.
    David, poor wretch, had no intention of refusing, much as he disliked the prospect. To do so would offend Aunt Becky and lose him all chance of the jug. He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Everybody bowed. Outside the two Sams, realizing what was going on as David’s sonorous voice floated out to them, took their pipes out of their mouths. David’s prayer was not up to his best, as his wife admitted to herself, but it was an eloquent and appropriate petition and David felt himself badly used when after his “Amen” Aunt Becky said:
    â€œGiving God information isn’t praying, David. It’s just as well to leave something to His imagination, you know. But I suppose you did your best. Thank you. By the way, do you remember the time, forty years ago, when you put Aaron Dark’s old ram in the church basement?”
    David looked silly and Mrs. David was indignant. Aunt Becky certainly had a vile habit of referring in company to whatever incident in your life you were most anxious to forget. But she was like that. And you couldn’t resent it if you wanted the jug. The David Darks managed a feeble smile.
    â€œNoel,” thought Gay, “is leaving the bank now.”
    â€œI wonder,” said Aunt Becky reflectively, “who was the first man who ever prayed. And what he prayed for. And how many prayers have been uttered since then.”
    â€œAnd how many have been answered,” said Naomi Dark, speaking bitterly and suddenly for the first time.
    â€œPerhaps William Y. could throw some light on that,” chuckled Uncle Pippin maliciously. “I understand he keeps a systematic record of all his prayers, which are answered and which ain’t. How about it, William Y.?”
    â€œIt averages up about fifty-fifty,” said William Y. solemnly, not understanding at all why some were giggling. “I am bound to say, though,” he added, “that some of the answers were—peculiar.”
    As for Ambrosine Winkworth, David had made an enemy for life of her because he had referred to her as “Thine aged handmaiden.” Ambrosine shot a venomous glance at David.
    â€œAged—aged,” she muttered rebelliously. “Why, I’m only seventy-two—not so old as all that—not so old.”
    â€œHush, Ambrosine,” said Aunt Becky authoritatively. “It’s a long time since you were young. Put another cushion under my head. Thanks. I’m going to have the fun of reading my own will. And I’ve had the fun of writing my own obituary. It’s going to be printed just as I’ve written it, too. Camilla has sworn to see to that. Good Lord, the obituaries I’ve read! Listen to mine.”
    Aunt Becky produced a folded paper from under her pillow.
    â€œâ€˜ No gloom was cast over the communities of Indian Spring, Three Hills, Rose River or Bay Silver when it became known that Mrs. Theodore Dark — Aunt Becky as she was generally called, less from affection than habit — had died on’ —whatever the date will be— ‘at the age of eighty-five!’
    â€œYou notice,” said Aunt Becky, interrupting herself,