Relieved, she turned quickly to join her aunt, but a hand was laid gently upon her shoulder. It was Brother Seabright, who had just stepped from the platform. The congregation, knowing her to be the niece of the hysteric woman, passed out without disturbing them.
“You have, indeed, improved your gift, Sister Cecilia,” he said gravely. “You must have practiced much.”
“Yes—that is, no!—only a little,” stammered Cissy.
“But, excuse me, I must look after auntie,” she added, drawing timidly away.
“Your aunt is better, and has gone on with Sister Shadwell. She is not in need of your help, and really would do better without you just now. I shall see her myself presently.”
“But YOU made her sick already,” said Cissy, with a sudden, half-nervous audacity. “You even frightened ME.”
“Frightened you?” repeated Seabright, looking at her quickly.
“Yes,” said Cissy, meeting his gaze with brown, truthful eyes. “Yes, when you—when you—made those faces. I like to hear you talk, but”—she stopped.
Brother Seabright's rare smile again lightened his face. But it seemed sadder than when she had first seen it.
“Then you have been practicing again at the Mission?” he said quietly; “and you still prefer it?”