The clergyman listened and responded; but he was not to be entirely baffled. At the first opportunity, he said gently, "Pardon me! May I ask a question? Did you mean just now that unhappily there is fear that your health may not be in time re-established?" A moment's pause. "Yes, I meant that; but I did not mean to speak about it. This is in strict confidence, if you please. Dr. Rotherbotham tells me plainly that I cannot live long. However, I do not wish to discuss the matter." "And, in looking forward to that great change—" Mr. Kelly spoke slowly, and he was not allowed to finish. "I have done my duty in life, and I hope that I shall know how to meet my end when it comes," she said coldly. "If that were indeed the 'end!'" Cecilia drew up her head, and a red spot burnt in either cheek. "We may as well keep to other subjects," she said. "Some people love nothing so well as to talk about themselves; but—" scornfully—"I have always counted that a proof of shallowness. It is not my way. Nor is it Felix's way. You will find him by no means disposed to stand personal questions." "Pardon me! You must not mistake my meaning. I have no wish to press for an answer—for myself. It is no matter of curiosity. I only suggest the question for your own consideration. As an 'ambassador for Christ,' I am bound to speak of Him; of all that you owe to Him, and of the comfort which may be yours in that hour, if you are willing." "Thanks; I am much obliged, but a different topic is more to my mind. Besides, it has been an agitating day. I must not press for a long visit." "Then I will not stay longer now; but perhaps you will let me come again. In any case—" for he felt sure he would not be admitted—"if at any time, in any way, I can help you, do not scruple to let me know." "Thanks!" once more. "I shall be among friends, but I am very much obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I must ask you to open the door for yourself. If Lettice were here—" She looked round with startled eyes. Lettice was there! Mr. Kelly, just about to make one last attempt, one parting appeal to her better nature, looked also, following the direction of her glance, and was checked. All through this dialogue the girl had not stirred. At first she remained thus, only because she felt still stupefied with the blow she had had, because movement was still painful, and coming forward might draw Cecilia's attention to her look. Afterward she sat on, because she could not move. Literally, could not. Cecilia's words fell with paralysing power. Had clear thought been possible, Lettice would have remembered that she had no business to listen to a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but she could not think: she could only feel. Part that followed was lost; but she distinctly heard Mr. Kelly's later question, and the not-to-be-mistaken answer. Utterance could not be more plain. Beyond these she took in nothing; and she was incapable of speech.