Before the silence was again broken the murmur of voices told them that the church doors had been opened, and presently they discerned a female form crossing the lawn towards the open window. It was Sister Cecilia, walking with that mincing lightness of tread which seems to be the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual superiority over the remainder of womanhood. Good women--those mistaken females who move in an atmosphere of ostentatious good works--usually walk like this. Like this they enter the humble cot with a little soup and a lot of advice. Like this they smilingly step, where angels would fear to tread, upon feelings which they are incapable of understanding. Mrs. Glynde got quietly up and left the room. As the door closed behind her Sister Cecilia's gently persuasive voice was heard. “Dora! Dora dear!” “Yes,” replied the girl without any enthusiasm, rising and going to the window. “Will you walk with me a little way across the fields? It is such a lovely evening.” “Yes, if you like.” And Dora passed out of the open window. “I am sorry,” said Sister Cecilia after a few paces, “that you were not in church. We had such a bright service.” Dora, like some more of us, wondered vaguely where the adjective applied, especially on a gloomy evening without candles, but she said nothing. “I stayed at home with mother,” she explained practically. “The servants were all out.” Sister Cecilia was not listening. She was gazing up at the sky, where a few stars were beginning to show themselves. “One feels,” she murmured with a sigh, “on such an evening as this, that, after all, nothing matters much.” “About the servants do you mean? They are going on better now.” “No, dear, about life. I mean that at times one feels that this cannot be the end of it all.” “Well, we ought to feel that, I suppose, being Christians.” “And some day we shall see the meaning of all our troubles,” pursued Sister Cecilia. “It is so hard for us older ones, who have passed through it, to stand by helpless, only guessing at the pain and anguish of it all, whereas, perhaps, we could help if we only knew. A little more candour, a little more confidence might so easily lead to mutual help and consolation.” “Possibly,” admitted Dora, without any encouragement. “I am so sorry for poor Arthur!” whispered Sister Cecilia, apparently to the evening shades. Dora was silent. She knew how to treat Sister Cecilia. Jem had taught her that. “It has been such a terrible blow. His letters to his mother are quite heartbroken.” Dora reserved her opinion of grown-up men who write heartbroken letters to their mothers. “I know all about it,” Sister Cecilia went on, quite regardless of the truth, as some good people are. “Dora, dear, I know all about it.” Silence, a silence which reminded Sister Cecilia of a sense of discomfiture which had more than once been hers in conversation with Jem. “Have you nothing to tell me, dear?” she inquired. “Nothing to say to me?”