“I hope all winter,” said Miss Braithwaite. “It’s only fair to her to tell you that she has gone through utter agony; her victory over herself has been hard won, so don’t underrate it, and try to see the value of eternal things, if such a girl as our Cicely Adair can turn from joy and love for their sake. Cis could not go to you into the wrong; come to her into the right. And God bless you, poor lad.” “Thanks,” said Rodney again. “I’m done with Church, but I’m much obliged; you mean it well. I hope Cis will stay on; you’ll look after her. I don’t understand how she came to be here; I suppose you’re one of these befriending women. Good-bye. Tell Cis--No! What’s the use? You can’t send messages that do any good. I wish I could kiss her good-bye. She’s--she’s a wonder! Oh, good God, what’s the use? Good-bye, Miss Braithwaite.” Rodney turned and dashed toward the door. He collided with the end of the bookcase nearest it, fell back, begged its pardon, and with a second dash was gone. Miss Braithwaite drew a long breath, and turned toward the fire, picking up the tongs to mend it, under the necessity of action; she was considerably disturbed. “It’s most wearing to have love affairs, even by proxy,” she told herself. “He’s not without attraction, and I can see that he’s remarkably handsome when he has slept, and eaten, and shaved. Dear me, what a singular thing it is that with all the millions of people there are in the world one can become so vitally necessary to another that the loss of him--or her--is cataclysmic in effect! I wonder how the saints endure all the human disturbances unloaded upon them for their help! I find it exhausting. But then I have not died, and thus gained the larger point of view! And, furthermore, it’s barely possible that I’m not a saint! Now for my poor Cis! I can imagine her state with Rod downstairs and her polarized will holding her upstairs, forever separated, yet with but twenty-five feet between them!” Miss Braithwaite went upstairs. She found Cis on her knees at the balustrade, her face pressed to the spindles, which her fingers tightly clasped. It was a wet face that she raised to Miss Braithwaite, but she was glad to see it so; tears were healing. “I heard his voice; I saw him go out, Miss Braithwaite! He will never come to me again! Oh, Miss Braithwaite, Miss Braithwaite!” Cis sobbed.