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for a time, and hoping that his aunt was in fact nearby, he responded, “That’s fine.”
    Cassandra didn’t know if Mrs Thorpe had remained in the vicinity or not. She had been given instructions and was just doing as she was told. She was to stay for less than an hour and to leave sooner if she was asked.
    “Excuse me,” Tate cut in after only five pages. “Would you mind terribly if we changed books?”
    “Not at all.”
    Tate had all he could do not to snap his fingers in defeat when her Italian was as well versed as her French. He would never have dreamed he would need more languages, or he’d have put Hastings to work.
    And then to his surprise, somewhere in the story, the joke faded away. Tate found himself relaxing, his mind willingly following the plot and her deep, soothing voice. She corrected a few of her pronunciations from time to time, but it wasn’t distracting in the least. Tate was nothing short of amazed when she stopped and closed the book.
    “Well, Mr Tate. We made it through the first four chapters, but now I must be off.”
    “Thank you,” Tate said automatically, realizing she was moving out of the room before he could frame any more of a reply. Not long after, he heard a door close and knew she had gone. He wasted no time coming to his feet. He found the door out of the library and hollered like a fishwife.
    “Harriet Thorpe, where are you? Harriet Thorpe, you come here this instant!”
    Her laughter gave her away as she came from the foyer, so satisfied with herself that she danced a little jig.
    “Come here,” Tate commanded, holding his arms out to hug her.
    Harriet went into his embrace and hugged him right back, both of them laughing until they felt weak.
    Still holding his aunt close, Tate’s voice became serious. “Have I told you how much I appreciate all you’ve done?”
    “I think you just did.”
    Tate found her forehead and kissed it. Harriet, still very pleased with herself, told him that tea would be in an hour and that she was going to change.

     
    Tate sat in his bedroom on Sunday morning—although the whole house was quiet—to pray and think on the Word. He had been studying the life of Moses when the accident occurred, and he worked every day to recall what he’d learned about that man and God’s work in his life, asking Hastings or his aunt to read to him about things he couldn’t remember.
    This morning, however, he just wished to pray. Prayer had become an integral part of his life since the accident. He’d always wanted to be stronger in that area, and having been plunged into darkness had certainly accomplished that.
    Please bless Pastor Hurst and all those listening to him today. Prepare hearts and change lives, Lord. Thank You that Harriet could meet with the church family this morning. Thank You for her love for You. Bless her, Lord. Help her ears to be open to Your Word this morning and to listen keenly for things she needs to learn. And please help her, Lord, to be aware of others around her.
    Tate stopped. This was not so much a prayer request for his aunt but one that he would be praying for himself should he ever see again. He had not been an uncaring man, just a busy one.
    “Of course,” he said quietly in his room, “that’s probably the same thing.”
    Tate spent the next two hours in his room. At times his heart was quiet, just thinking about the great God who loved him. At other moments, he lifted up all he could think of, friends and family alike, asking God to protect and save.
    Not until it was almost time for Harriet to return did Tate remember Cassandra. She had such a nice voice—deep and soothing. He wondered if she was going to come again.

     
    “I’m fascinated with Jonah,” Pastor Hurst admitted during his sermon. “I think I would choose to do better. I think in the same situation I would act differently, but then something comes up in my life that reminds me I am not thinking as God thinks, and I have to suspect that I