"A hot lemonade," said Cecilia rather to herself.
"Never!" said Father McGowan. "Never! Cecilia, you are a dear child. Don't irritate me. I hate lemonades. They make me think of money for the parish house, and they are bad enough cold."
"Hot toddy?" suggested Cecilia; her eyes twinkled.
"Ah—!" replied Father McGowan softly. Cecilia rang, spoke to a haughty person in buttons, and soon Father McGowan was sipping something warm which did not smell of lemons.
"How's the pain?" asked Father McGowan in a commonplace tone; he studied the glass he held.
"Oh," answered Cecilia, "it is the same, but I am braver. I will be good, Father McGowan. I can't help lov—caring for him. I fixed my hair eight times the other day when I knew I'd see him, and used an eyebrow pencil Marjory left, but it wasn't becoming, and I washed it off. I can't help caring for him, although I know he's unworthy. I seem to have lost my handkerchief,—thank you." Father McGowan supplied a large square.
"You didn't use to cry much, did you, dear child?" he asked gently.
"No," answered Cecilia, "and I don't now except with you. You see, when I voice it it becomes so tragically real. It is fixed because I speak it to a human, while when I think of it it seems like a bad dream. It—it doesn't seem possible that I can care so much, while he doesn't."
The fat priest reached for Cecilia's hand. He lifted it and kissed it. Cecilia looked surprised.
"A token of immense respect and humble love, dear child," said Father McGowan. "Kisses," he continued, "Cecilia, tie to the man who humbly kisses your hand. There are two kinds, the kind who wants only your lips and the kind who humbly touches your hand and who longs to be absolved by whimpering out his shames against your throat. Lord, what an old fool I am! What a subject for a priest to lecture on!"