"Thank you, sir. That does hearten me. But, if he should want to go, and if—if he left it to me, what should I do? What ought I to do?"
Her big eyes were flaming with interrogation. The Parson dared not temporise with her. All his thoughts concerning women seemed to have become focussed on this individual case. All that the finest gentlewomen in the Empire were feeling expressed itself poignantly from the mouth of his parlourmaid. All his convictions concerning the potentialities of the soul became fortified. They burst suddenly into full flower. Yet he answered curtly, distrustful of sentiment when tremendous issues were at stake.
"You will tell him, Fancy, to act according to the dictates of his own conscience."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you mean that you will tell him that, regardless of your own feelings?"
"Yes, sir."
She got up, begging his pardon for keeping him out of bed. As he rose from his chair, he wondered what he could say to comfort her; some word of solace that might woo sleep to her tired brain. They went together into the small hall. He took her hand.
"Have courage and faith. Pray that these may be vouchsafed to you and to all of us. Something tells me that you have both already. And if so, Fancy, it is well with you. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."