Cicely lightly dozed as she waited, falling into the half-submerged, half-conscious sleep of a sick person; she was spent with excess of emotion. She did not have long to wait, however. Miss Braithwaite evidently was accustomed to sudden summons from Father Morley, and to responding to them without demur, nor question as to what he asked of her. She told Cis later that “when it came to a call from Father Morley she was always prepared for the worst.” Now she stopped her coupé at the gate beyond the schoolyard’s high wall which shut the road from view. Cis did not arouse to hear her, but Father Morley heard the soft purr of her engine; its cessation and the slight jar of her brake; shifted a ribbon in his breviary to mark the place at which he stopped reading, closed his book and went toward the gate to welcome his adjutant. “Lost, strayed or stolen?” Miss Braithwaite thus asked of the Jesuit a statement of the present case upon which he had called her. “Neither--yet. Liable to stray, and finally to be lost. Badly strained by a contest in which she is neither victor nor vanquished, so far. You’re to take her home and arm her anew, as well as to treat her wounds; hospital case. Interesting and valuable material,” murmured the priest, turning back toward Cicely. She aroused at the sound of their voices. Miss Braithwaite had nodded comprehendingly to Father Morley’s summing up, and had said aloud: “I nearly ran over a child coming here! Little sinner ran directly before my wheels after he had almost reached the curbstone, and I had made sure that I might safely go ahead! I do wish, even if people don’t highly value their children, that they would keep them out of the road. It’s most unpleasant to run one down! This bold buccaneer was about three years old, I fancy.”