Cicely sat up and dropped her hands into her lap, staring at Miss Braithwaite. She saw a small person who, at first glimpse, gave the impression of being topped by a head out of proportion to her height, but this was due to the remarkable cast of her countenance, not to the fact. She had a broad, noble brow; keen, dark eyes, deep-set and not large, but so alive, so flashing and penetrating that they held anyone’s attention who saw them for the first time. Her nose was well-cut, somewhat large, thin, with a high arch, and her lips were strongly defined, the upper one meeting the lower one in a central point. It was the mouth of a person not unsweet, but not given to what might be called professional sweetness; her chin was square-cut, and it lifted in a decided way as she talked. Her voice penetrated Cicely’s consciousness before she fully saw her, a voice of the highest cultivation, used without the least taint of affectation; neither low nor high, with pleasant, throaty notes, yet with a resonance that made it insistent, even at a distance. She spoke every syllable clearly; beautiful English pronunciation, with inflections suggestive of Italian, speech so delightful that, though Cis was in no condition to get pleasure from it, it did enter her tired brain soothingly, and it drew her to the woman who was coming toward her with a friendly smile and a penetrating look. “Miss Braithwaite, this is Miss Cicely Adair. Cicely, my child, this is Miss Miriam Braithwaite. The most that I shall tell you of her is that she is the best prescription in my pharmacopœia; you’ll have plenty of occupation in finding out just how the prescription acts. Cicely Adair is not happy, Miss Braithwaite; not fit to go to her boarding place alone to-night; she needs mothering. I’ve told her that you would take her home with you and put her to sleep in one of your spacious rooms,” said Father Morley. Cicely arose, not quite steadily, and put her cold hand into Miss Braithwaite’s hand, which took it into a warm clasp. “My dear, Father Morley has great confidence in the most single of single ladies to impute to her mothering qualities, now hasn’t he? But I’ll be delighted to have you with me to-night; my maid is away, and I’m scandalously dependent upon her; not for service; for companionship! So if you’ll let me have your youth near me to-night it will be most opportune and welcome,” said the little lady, whose whole effect made absurd the idea of her being dependent upon anything created. “Thank you, Miss Braithwaite,” said Cis. “I’m not sure I ought to go; I ought not to bother a perfect stranger, but Father--”