“I know, I understand. I’ll keep him off you. Write him here, now, dear Cis, and inclose the ring. Don’t harass yourself by writing a long letter; the whole matter can be condensed into a few words. You have chosen God; you are true to your first promises; that is all. But be sure to tell him how fully you appreciate his truth in dealing with you, albeit he spoke tardily, for we do not forget that we want to bring Rodney right, and it will infuriate him if he thinks that you do not attribute to him the good that was in him when he gave you the chance you are taking to free yourself from a wrong position,” said this good woman, patting Cicely’s hand as mothers pat their babies to sleep. “Yes, Miss Braithwaite; I’d thought that would be what I must do,” said Cis. “I have nothing with me, you know. Have you a pen that won’t be spoiled by another person’s using it? It ruins pens to lend them; I know that.” “Plenty of pens, besides the one that I guard like a seven-headed monster!” declared Miss Braithwaite rising with an alacrity that forbade Cis’s considering the coming note in its proper light. “Come to my desk over here, and take any pen you like, save that one.” Cis followed her, and took the straight chair which stood before the desk. She wrote slowly, pausing often, passing her hand over her eyes frequently, as if she could not see, but there was no moisture on the fingers afterward. She laid before Miss Braithwaite the completed note, saying only: “Please tell me if it is wrong in any way. I hope he’ll know that it is hard to write him this. December 1st, isn’t it? Christmas eve is very near.” Miss Braithwaite read; she had never seen Cicely’s writing before, but she knew that this irregular, wavering hand could not be the usual writing of this extremely definite girl with the strong, vivid face, the bright, radiant red hair.