Rodney had changed; he looked older, worn, hard. Cis instantly felt great pity for him, but it was mingled with amazement that she had so lately found him all that was attractive in man. Something stood between them that was not the dying Myrtle. Cis had learned, had absorbed other standards of excellence than Rodney’s since she had parted from him; they asserted themselves without her volition, her consciousness of their presence. “Cis!” said Rodney hoarsely, and Cis became aware that she had not spoken. “Yes, Rodney. I am thankful that you have come,” Cis said. She arose, went forward and gave Rodney an icy hand. “I will telephone the Sisters and ask when you are to go to see Myrtle. She has sunk fast for two days; I found her quite low when I went there this afternoon, but they think that she is fighting to hold herself alive till you get here. Perhaps you must go there to-night.” Cis turned toward the telephone in the corner. “For heaven’s sake, Cis, is this all that you have to say to me after--” Rodney’s angry grief stopped his utterance. “That I am thankful that you have come? That I will help you at once to accomplish what you came for? What else is there to say, Rodney?” Cis asked quietly, and took down the telephone receiver. “Have I no claim? Am I no more than an undertaker, called in to lay out that miserable woman?” Rodney almost shouted. Cis turned toward him and raised her hand. “I am waiting for my connection; please be quiet,” she said. “You have a claim upon my pity and help; I am giving you both.” Rodney stared at her as she turned back to the instrument and talked for a short time to someone on the other end of the wire. Cis hung up, and came back to the middle of the room, leaning her hand on the table as if she were tired. “You are to go to the Good Shepherd to-night,” she said. “The Sister Infirmarian says that you have not come too soon. If Nan will give you supper we will start immediately after you have eaten. I will take you there, unless you prefer to go alone.” “I can’t go alone; I’m afraid,” Rodney groaned. Gentle Nan went over to him as she heard his boyish cry. She began to hope that Cicely would comfort him, as she alone could do, and lead him back to God, which seemed to her preëminently Cicely’s grace. “I don’t want any supper, but have you coffee?” Rodney asked, and Nan hurried away to make it, followed by Cis, who had no mind to linger with Rodney alone. Joe called a taxi; the coffee was quickly made on the gas range, and drunk. Cis found herself whirling as in a dream through the streets, beside Rodney. He groped for her hand, but Cis withheld it. “There is no you nor I, Rodney,” she said sternly. “Myrtle is dying. Pray that you may be able to help her out of the world which she has tragically spoiled for herself, for you, and for who can say how many others? Pray hard that you and she, both, may be allowed to atone.”