"Jack!" somebody called just then, and there was Nannie seated in the niche at the head of the stairs. I ran up and squeezed in alongside of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much better. I told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time I got through, instead of being angry any more, I really felt sorry for the boys. "Oh, Nannie," I said, "I do wish Fee _could_ go to college!"
Nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "Jack," she said softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?"
So I repeated it: "'I say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven. For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'"
"That has comforted me all day," whispered Nannie. "That's what we can do for Felix: we can pray--you and I--that God will make a way for him to go to college. Will you, Jackie-boy?"
"Yes," I said presently; "but--but--perhaps, Nannie, you'd better not say anything to Betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make fun of me."
"Oh, no, she won't," said Nannie, "because you and I are the 'two,' Jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for Felix, too."
Well, I _was_ dumfounded,--Betty, of all people!
Just then the study door opened, and Phil and Felix came out; Phil had his arm over Fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. I felt they'd want Nannie to themselves,--and, besides, Phil might just have said something to tease me again; so I ran up stairs alone, and left them to talk together.
All this happened some weeks ago, and though Phil has commenced college, no way has come yet for Felix to go; but we "three" still keep on praying for it.
So many and such unexpected things have happened lately that I scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything.
The very first surprise was two letters that came for Felix and me from our godmother, aunt Lindsay. She is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and I'm named Nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "Jack." Aunt Lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. She lives in a big old house in Boston, and very seldom comes to New York; but twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and Fee and I have to write and thank her. How we dread those letters! It was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for Miss Marston does not help us in the least.