“Cis, I wanted to see you; did you sense it?” Jeanette cried as she came in. “I’ve something wonderful, marvellous to tell you. You remember Paul Ralph Randolph?” “Why, of course I do,” said Cis. “Didn’t he tour New England with Mr. Lancaster last summer, keeping with Miss Braithwaite’s car? I rode with him lots of times, and had fine talks. He’s the convert minister who has been so fine about it; I mean sacrifices and all that.” “Surely! Cis, he’s a confessor of the faith! He’s almost a martyr for it! He’s perfectly glorious!” cried Jeanette. “You’ve heard all that; everybody has, of course. You don’t know him, do you?” Cis asked. “Oh, Cicely Adair! He told me that he had talked to you of me!” Jeanette looked aggrieved. “I met him in England; he crossed with us coming home. He was received in England, because it was easier. His father and mother behaved violently about his coming over to the Church, when he announced that he intended to come, so he went across, and he was received by the Benedictines over there. Don’t you remember? I must have spoken of it, and he himself told you that he knew me! What a girl! Did you remember everything he told you of Mr. Lancaster? Paul says--” “Hallo! _Who_ says?” cried Cis. “Yes, that’s my news!” Jeanette triumphed over her. “_Paul_ says, _Paul_, whom I’m going to marry! Paul Ralph Randolph, the confessor, and almost martyr!” “Martyr nothing!” Cis relapsed under the shock into her earlier habits of speech. “He’s no martyr if he marries you, Jeanette Lucas! You’re too lovely to marry any mere man. I always did think you were superfinely fine! But this is great news, my dearest, and nobody is gladder than red-haired Cis!” “Nobody is nicer than red-haired Cis!” retorted Jeanette. “I was afraid you’d be a little shocked, because you knew I was engaged before. But, Cis, though it hurt me dreadfully when you let me discover Herbert Dale’s character, and I was wretched after it, it was the sickness of disenchantment; the shock cured me of all love for him. I half hoped I might be a nun; I spoke of it to you once, but it isn’t my place. When Paul asked me to marry him--three days ago; he wrote me--I knew how I loved him; I hadn’t realized it before. Oh, my dear, I’m so happy and so humbled!” “I don’t mind how happy you are, but not humbled,” Cis protested, kissing her over and over again. “And I want you happy, splendid Cicely,” Jeanette murmured. “Oh, as to that, I’m sure to be; it’s the temperament of my hair,” said Cis, turning away slightly. “But I’d like to be useful, fill a place, find the right place to fill. Sister Bonaventure says no habit for poor Cicely! I wonder what I’m meant for; nothing in particular, probably. Reliable secretary, run a typewriter accurately, get under the skins of youngsters when they need entertaining! Well, it’s at least a harmless life.”