Suddenly Cicely cried out with a long, low, heart-wrung cry, and sprang up, falling on her knees, her face bowed in her hands. “I can’t--I can’t--leave Him!” she said. Father Morley misunderstood. “Child, you must!” he said. “You must leave him.” Cicely looked up, and a queer, dazed smile passed over her miserable face. “Oh, you don’t mean that! You mean Rodney! I mean God. I can’t, I can’t leave God,” she cried, and caught her breath in a strange little laugh, wholly like the Cis who could not help recognizing humor, however unmerry her tragic mood. Father Morley smiled. His relief was unspeakable; he had won. He knew that if this girl chose she would abide by her choice; he knew that Cicely Adair was safe. And he felt a new, moving pity for her that she could smile at his urging her to forsake God, misunderstanding her pronoun, though the lips which twisted into the attempt to smile had just spoken the doom of her longing love for her lover. “God bless you, my daughter, my brave, true girl!” the priest said. “Come, rise up. How really you have arisen! Shall we go into the church? I think we both should thank God, thank the Holy Spirit that has guarded you and inspired you. Will you not go to confession, Cicely? To-morrow morning you must receive the Lord to Whom you have remained faithful. And then come to Him as nearly every day as you can, for He will carry you over the dark patch of roadway before you, into that bright light just beyond. Come, my dear, into the church. Shall I ask one of our Fathers to hear your confession? There are two or three in the house, I’m sure.” Cis let Father Morley help her to her feet, as she said: “Don’t you hear confessions, Father? I don’t have to go twice, do I?” “No, my dear; only once to-day!” Father Morley smiled at Cis, who, this time, did not know why he looked amused. “I thought you might prefer someone else to me. Come, then.” “Miss Braithwaite said she would come after me here,” said Cis. “Perhaps I ought to wait for her.” “To be sure; she would come after you!” Father Morley cried admiringly. “She never half does anything! I’ll tell the brother where you are; she’ll look for you in the church, though I’m quite sure she would look for you there anyway, even though no word were left for her.” Three quarters of an hour later Miss Braithwaite turned her car around before the church. Cicely sat in the corner, her elbow on the top of the upholstered box which was behind the driver’s seat, her head supported by her hand. She was quiet, but Miss Braithwaite hardly needed the reassuring smile which Father Morley gave her from the church step where he was seeing them off to tell her that Cicely was at peace. Her face was worn and profoundly sad, but there was a new quality in its sadness, the serenity of a right decision.