"My children," said Cecilia, "are gentle, white ghosts, and they play and do only what I dream. They would never do that, I would send them from my arms first, and I do—love them. My arms would be empty. Am I going to be a sentimental old maid, Father McGowan-dear?"
Father McGowan said he thought not. Then he turned and again quite brazenly kissed Cecilia's small palm.
"Cecilia," he said, "to-day seems like the end of the world to me.... My soul is on wings. Dear child, I wish you could know what you have always been to me. But you do, don't you?"
"Yes, Father McGowan-dear," answered Cecilia. "I have known. I have always brought my worst hurts to you, and one does that only to one who loves."
"Well, well," said Father McGowan, unused to personal sentiment and awkward from it, "now we understand. How's John?"
"Wonderful," answered Cecilia. She smiled mischievously. "Almost a boy again," she added in explanation.
"Twombly responsible?" asked Father McGowan.
"Yes," she answered, "entirely. His ideals when transplanted are unusually good. However, they do not seem to take root in him."
"Well, well," said Father McGowan. He stretched in a tired way and said he must go. No, he couldn't stay for dinner, for he was to take the night turn at nursing a burned iron moulder. "Won't he be thirsty when he sniffs my lemonade?" said Father McGowan.
Cecilia rang; the lofty person appeared. "Just a minute," said Father McGowan. "I want one more word with you." The person faded.