“Not hard to guess. I’ve been a priest, hearing confessions these twenty-five years, my child. Only an insuperable obstacle to your marriage could present to you the alternative you described. You never will call yourself any man’s wife, when you know you are not a wife,” replied Father Morley. “But this is no time to talk; you’re tired, and I dine in a short time. Think of it over night; ‘the night brings counsel,’ and pray to the Holy Spirit. You’ll not go home to your lonely struggle, of course; that would never do. I’m going to send you to Miss Miriam Braithwaite for to-night. She is an elderly woman; the cleverest, most entertaining person imaginable, but, what is far more important, she comes near to being a saint underneath her disguise of it! She is my great friend and reliance. Once more I summon Brother Feely, and he will telephone Miss Braithwaite, and she will drive over for you. You’ll enjoy your visit.” Father Morley made no opening for demur on Cicely’s part, but she tried to make one. “Father, I don’t know her! Oh, no! I can’t go! I’m going home,” she cried. “You’ll meet Miss Braithwaite within fifteen minutes, and know her within twenty minutes,” declared Father Morley, with a slight wave of the hand that dissipated Cicely’s attempt to resist him. He called Brother Feely, and bade him telephone Miss Braithwaite. “Tell her I want to send Miss Cicely Adair to her for the night. She is worn out, tell her; a thoroughly good girl, whom she will like. Ask her to come over after her as soon as she can, please; Miss Adair is needing rest.” Cis sank back, unable to object; indeed she found this arrangement something of a relief. She dreaded a night alone in her room, and dreaded what she knew would lie before her, an interview with Rodney which would be beyond her strength. It was only much later that she realized that Father Morley had foreseen the same thing, and prevented it. He had the priest’s intuition which enabled him to know a great deal that he had not been told. CHAPTER XIV INDECISION Cicely waited the coming of her yet unknown hostess without much interest in the arrangement which Father Morley had not only made for her, but, so to speak, had carried by assault. She was so utterly tired in body and mind, so prostrated by the intensity with which she had been feeling for the past hours that the ability to feel was, for the time, burned out of her. She sat back against the garden bench, resting sidewise so that her arm lay across its back; her head drooped forward on her shoulder, waiting quiescent for Miss Braithwaite to come to fetch her away. Father Morley waited with her, but he did not speak to her. He paced the grass slowly, his open breviary in his hand, his lips moving as he read each syllable of the sonorous Latin, not slighting it, but dwelling on its beauties, now that he had time to read it leisurely.