And men that sweat in nothing but scorn—
That is, on all that ever were born—
Miserere, Domine.'
H. B.
I
The next morning poor Cecily felt strangely forlorn. Somehow, this did not seem like Christmas Day. Wantley, haggard, but smiling, after his long night's vigil, had declared that the state of the roads made it out of the question that they should drive the six miles to the nearest Catholic church, and she had submitted without a word, only insisting that he should have some hours of sleep.
And then, after having knelt down by the fire in the spacious room which had been prepared for her, when she had read the service of the Mass and said her rosary, she sent a message to Lady Wantley asking if she could come to her.
The mistress of Marston Lydiate was still in bed, and in the wintry morning light Cecily saw with a pang how aged and how ailing her old friend had become, but the look of intolerable distress and terror had gone from the pale, delicate face.
'Do you know, my dear, what day this is—I mean, what day this is to me?'
'Yes,' said Cecily, smiling: 'I know that it is Penelope's birthday, as well as Christmas Day.'