“O mama, how I do love to watch a thunder storm,” said Emily to me one evening in April, whilst she leant at the open window gazing at the clouds, and listening to the awful peals which from time to time burst from them. “It reminds me of that beautiful story of Samuel, I could always say, ‘Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth.’—Don’t you think, mama, it seems as if God really spoke to us? But you do not seem to enjoy it;” added she, turning round; “you hide your eyes, and seem quite sad.—Are you frightened, mama?”
“Not for myself, Emily; but I cannot forget that your papa is now crossing the heath, and exposed to these awful flashes of lightning.”
“And I did forget it!—How could I?” said Emily, changing colour, and quitting her post at the window to place herself close by me with her little hands on my lap, clasping one of mine closely between them. Another flash!—She watched my countenance, but said nothing.—Another, still more vivid! She raised herself on tiptoe, and whispered in my ear, “But we have been anxious about papa often before, and yet he has come home safe.—Does that comfort you, mama?”
“It ought, dear Emily; but O what a flash was that!” Emily let go my hand, and darted into my dressing-room, where she remained a few minutes; then returning with a bright cherubic smile, she took her station by me again.
At that moment the whole room was illumined, but Emily did not this time flinch or change colour, but she threw her little arms round my neck, and said, “Mama, I am not frightened now, and perhaps you will be bolder when I tell you what I have done. You do not know why I went into your dressing-room: it was to kneel down and pray God and Jesus Christ to let dear papa come home safe to us again; and if Jesus Christ does suffer little children to come to him, (which you tell me may mean by prayer,) surely it will be when they pray him to take care of their own dear papas—the papas God gave them!—But hark! I hear a horse! It is, it is papa, and he is come home safe!”