An English lady, who had forsaken her God and her Bible for the gloom and darkness of infidelity, was crossing the Atlantic, and asked a pious sailor one morning how long they should be out. “In fourteen days, if it is God’s will, we shall be in Liverpool,” answered the sailor. “If it is God’s will,” said the lady: “what a senseless expression; don’t you know that all comes by chance?” After a few days a terrible storm arose, and the lady stood clinging to the side of the cabin door in an agony of terror, when the sailor passed her. “What think you?” said she, “will the storm soon be over?” “It seems likely to last for some time, madam.” “Oh,” she cried, “do pray that we may not be lost.” His only and calm reply was, “Shall I pray to chance?”