"Oh, I haven't said my prayers yet." She began to throw off the bed-clothes.
"Well, you're not going to get out of bed, are you ?" "Yes." She slid off the bed on to the floor, shuddering as her feet touched the cold linoleum carpet.

Habit was strong in her still.

She believed in no fixed and certain dogma, but she had never broken the custom of saying her prayers; never even been able to rid herself of the belief that except upon the knees on the hard floor prayers were of little intrinsic value.

That she had always been taught; and though the greater lessons--the untangling of the entangled Trinity, the mystery of the bread and wine--had lost their meaning in her mind, ever since her father's predicament, yet she still held fondly to the simple habits of her childhood.
When Janet saw her finally huddled on her knees, her head, with its masses of gold hair, buried in the arms flung out appealingly before her, she turned and blew out the candle.

Sally never answered questions when she was saying her prayers, though Janet frequently addressed them to her, and took the answers for granted.
There she knelt in the darkness, while Janet dug the accustomed grove in her pillow and went to sleep.
What does a woman pray for--what does any one pray for--whom do they pray to, when the composition of their mental attitude towards the Highest is a plethora of doubts?
Yet they pray.
Instinctively at night, by the side of their beds, their knees bent--or there is some genuflexion in their heart which answers just as well--they drop into the attitude of prayer.