Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner-table-Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing-propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.
"I like this," she announced at length.
"It's beautiful.
I've heard it before-I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it over once.
But I didn't like it then.
He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully.
I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty.
This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same way poetry does.
Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be Thy name.' That is just like a line of music.
Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss-Marilla."