"I--I suppose so," said Laura, in a low embarrassed voice. Helbeck, who was watching her, saw that she could hardly restrain the shudder of repulsion that ran through her. Her extraordinary answer threw a silence on the party. The tears started to the sick woman's eyes. The priest rose to take his leave. Mrs. Fountain asked him for an absolution and a blessing. He gave them, coldly bowed to Laura, shook hands with Sister Rosa, and took his departure, Helbeck conducting him. "Oh, Laura!" said Mrs. Fountain reproachfully. The girl's lips were quite white. She knelt down by her stepmother and kissed her hand. "Dear, I wouldn't have hurt you for the world! It was something I had been reading--it--it seemed to me horrible!--just for a moment. Of course I'm glad it comforts you, poor darling!--of course--of course, I am!" Mrs. Fountain was instantly appeased--for herself. "But Alan felt it so," she said restlessly, as she closed her eyes--"what you said. I saw his face." It was time for the invalid to be moved, and Sister Rosa had gone for help. Laura was left for a moment kneeling by her stepmother. No one could see her; the penitence and pain in the girl's feeling showed in her pallor, her pitiful dropping lip. Helbeck was heard returning. Laura looked up. Instinctively she rose and proudly drew herself together. Never yet had she seen that face so changed. It breathed the sternest, most concentrated anger--a storm of feeling that, in spite of the absolute silence that held it in curb, yet so communicated itself to her that her heart seemed to fail in her breast. * * * * * A few minutes later Miss Fountain, having gathered together a few scattered possessions of the invalid, was passing through the chapel passage. A step approached from the hall, and Helbeck confronted her. "Miss Fountain--may I ask you a kindness?" What a tone of steel! Her shoulders straightened--her look met his in a common flash. "Augustina is weak. Spare her discussion--the sort of discussion with which, no doubt, your Cambridge life makes you familiar. It can do nothing here, and "--he paused, only to resume unflinchingly--"the dying should not be disturbed." Laura wavered in the dark passage like one mortally struck. His pose as the protector of his sister--the utter distance and alienation of his tone--unjust!--incredible! "I discussed nothing," she said, breathing fast. "You might be drawn to do so," he said coldly. "Your contempt for the practices that sustain and console Catholics is so strong that no one can mistake the difficulty you have in concealing it. But I would ask you to conceal it for her sake." "I thank you," she said quietly, as she swept past him. "But you _are_ mistaken." She walked away from him and mounted the stairs without another word. * * * * *