“You look it,” said Nan slowly. “It will not tire me to hear it all to-night. Mother is here. Go down and find her, and have your tea. Joe will be home in a few minutes.”
Cis went down. Mrs. Dowling greeted her with her old manner of uncertainty as to what Cis might be about to do next, but it rapidly gave way to wonder, and then to constraint. Cis did not intend to produce any such effect, nor was she conscious that she did so, but about her was the fine atmosphere of Miss Braithwaite’s house, and her recent associations with minds and souls informed with knowledge, divine and human. Mrs. Dowling began half to fear Cis, and then to entertain a hope that Tom, whose infatuation for Cis had always distressed her, might find favor in the eyes of this charming girl, whose pretty clothes were worn with an air, whose pretty manners were wholly unconscious.
That evening Cis was allowed to spend an hour with Nan; she drew a low chair beside her, laid her godson, a roll of soft white wool, across her knees, and made ready to talk.
“Cis, dear, am I to know what happened?” asked Nan timidly. “I saw Mr. Moore when he was here, looking for you. I could not understand, but evidently he could not, either. What was wrong? Or do you mind telling me?”
“No. I expected to tell you, Nannie. I did mind writing about it. It is all right now; I am thankful to say that I’m happy, as I told you I was, and I can talk about it.”
Then Cis told, simply, but completely, the story of her engagement and its breaking, giving more expression to her own fight against temptation than she had ever done to Miss Braithwaite.
Nan listened with wide eyes, breathless, not interrupting. When Cis ended, with a long breath of relief that the story was told, Nan put out her hand and softly touched Cis, her eyes full of tears, but fuller of adoring love.
“To think that I used to be afraid you were not a good Catholic!” she said. “To think that I imagined that I was a better one than you were, I, who never in all my life suffered one little pang for my faith! Why, Cis; why, Cis, dearest! I’m so glad I know you! And I’m so glad that little Matthew will have you for a godmother! I am almost sure that he will be a priest, and may be a saint!”
“You little ninny-Nanny!” cried Cis, jumping up, almost forgetting the baby, but saving him from a fall by a clutch on the outer layer of his many envelopes. “You must be getting tired; a little light-headed! I’m going off. If ever you say anything so silly to me as that again I’ll cut your acquaintance, and ungodmother your son! So there!”
She kissed Nan good night, gave her little son to her, and ran off to her own room.