"Well, dear, I've thought once or twice he looked at her rather as if he liked her. I'm sure I don't know what he can see in her. But of course if he's a priest, he won't be able to marry at all." "No, mother, I suppose not." "Well, my dear, I think it would be terrible for the Kesterns, Paul doing so well and all. Just too terrible. I am sure all their friends ought to try and prevent it. And if he becomes an author too, he's not likely to be a missionary after all. He ought to be a great preacher one day, and if he writes as well, I suppose it would help a great deal." "Yes, I suppose it would." The girl propped her head on her hands, and stared into the flames. Mrs. Ernest finished her sock. "What's the time?" she asked. The girl looked up. "Ten o'clock," she said. "Dear, you ought to be going up. You look tired. Give me a kiss, Madeline." For once, the girl got up at once and went over to her mother. Mrs. Ernest put her arms round her, and smoothed back her hair. She sighed. "I do hope you'll be happy," she said. "I'm sure I don't want anything except the best for my girl." "I know, mumsie. Don't worry, darling." "No, dear, I won't. Only---- Dear girl, I expect Paul is very easily led. That Father Vassall now. And a good woman can have such an influence on a man, Madeline." The girl kissed her again, and hid her face on her shoulder. "Your father and I have prayed for you ever since you were a wee girl, darling, that you might marry the right man. Good-night, dear child." "Good-night, mumsie. Is daddy in the study?" "Yes, dear. Tell him it's ten, will you? Paul comes home to-morrow, Madeline." "Does he?" "Yes. Take those cards round to the Kesterns in the afternoon, will you. If you see him, tell him how pleased we are about the book." "Yes. Good-night, mother." "Good-night, dear. Sleep sound." Madeline undressed slowly. Then she slipped on her dressing-gown and knelt by her bed. She habitually said the prayers that she had said since she was a little girl, and she said them now. But she said them a little more slowly than usual, and when she had finished, she did not jump at once between the sheets as she usually did. She knelt on, thinking. She did not want to be a clergyman's wife anywhere really, in England or abroad. Yet she couldn't tell God that. But she did want to be a successful author's wife, only she could not tell God that either. She had never even told God properly about Paul, partly because she had never known quite what to tell. Now, however, she was realising just what it would mean to her if he became a Roman Catholic priest, utterly preposterous as it seemed. Besides, in her heart of hearts, it did not seem quite so preposterous as she had said. Paul was like that. Also, he was rather nice. Such a boy. Much to good for that Edith Thornton, only that also you couldn't tell God.