Miss Braithwaite saw that Anselm watched her, and she, also, watched her covertly. The girl was changing fast; she was growing, deepening, expanding. At this rate she would soon be a gracious, attractive and valuable woman. A thought new to her mind occurred to Miss Braithwaite, but she instantly dismissed it. Anselm Lancaster had seen many lovely and lovable women, in many lands; Cicely Adair could not attract him beyond his sympathetic interest in a girl who had done what she had done, had been faithful to the cause nearest his heart. And if Cicely had been capable of attracting such a man as the scholarly and accomplished Anselm Lancaster, he was so far from her thoughts in this regard that she would never put forth the innocent wiles which are every girl’s for the man whom she feels may love her, by which she awakens and feeds his attraction, according to the plan of the Creator Who made them male and female. Cis withdrew from Mr. Lancaster as a rule, as from one outside her orbit, and when she approached him it was with that admiration and trust that frankly announced her sense of remoteness. Yet it was a sweet, a womanly Cis, with new depths in her eyes, and strength and goodness being graven upon her pale face, who sat so quietly across from Anselm Lancaster in her golden, brown-furred gown that Christmas eve at dinner. After dinner, as usual, Miss Braithwaite repaired to her library fire. The night was cold; a sleet rain was falling, turning to ice as it fell; the fire was welcome, its warmth and its cheer needed. “Anselm, before you begin to smoke, will you call the garage? I detest telephoning. Tell Leo to put the chains on my car, and not to fail to have it here by half past eleven; I will not drive faster than ten miles an hour to-night. Then you may light your cigar, and draw up to be agreeable to us,” Miss Braithwaite commanded her guest. “Cicely, dear, is it to be for you an order that keeps perpetual silence?” “I’m afraid no order, of any sort,” said Cis arousing herself. “Fancy me not talking! But we went to confession, you see, and after that I can’t say much for awhile. I’m thinking about Nannie, married to-morrow, and wondering what my birthday resolutions ought to be.” She spoke softly, sitting close beside Miss Braithwaite, but Anselm Lancaster heard her low, yet resonant voice. He hung up the telephone receiver, and came back to the hearth. As he slipped into his waiting chair he laid on Cicely’s knee a package; evidently a book. She untied the cord and disclosed a translation of the Missal, bound in tooled red leather, three ribbons hanging from its pages. “Oh!” cried Cis rapturously. “Oh, Mr. Lancaster, how fine, how beautiful! Is it--” She checked herself, but, fluttering the leaves, her arrested question was answered. On the fly page was written in the close, small hand of one who wrote and thought much: “Cicely Adair. Her Lord’s birthday and her own. Christmas 1922.”