Clare had become quiet and lay very still. At last, her dark eyes opened heavily, and she searched the solicitous faces of the two men contritely. “Sorry I made such a fuss,” she murmured. “It wasn’t like me, was it? I—I don’t know what happened to me. It—it wasn’t like a heart attack. It was as if something from outside had robbed me of all my strength, in an unguarded moment.” She paused, her lips parted as if to say more, then closed firmly.

Father Rooney’s brow wrinkled ever so slightly; a half-puzzled expression that had rested on his face a moment past, returned. He looked gravely at the delicate beauty of the face on the divan cushion. Her last words—and her silence—had disturbed him far more than he cared to admit to himself; for some strange reason they seemed ominous. It was with an effort that he threw off his depression to meet the two radiant faces that now looked in at the door.

“Father, Ned and I—What’s the matter? Is anything the matter with Clare?” Margaret sprang from the encircling arm of her lover to kneel at the side of the divan. The shadow that always lay, though ever so lightly, upon her younger sister, was a dread shadow and its gloom now drew fringes of trailing darkness across the bliss of her new happiness.

“It’s quite nothing, Margie darling. Don’t be frightened. Anyway, I’m all right now,” Clare hastened to reassure her.

Then with characteristic self-forgetfulness—and none but the wise old priest knew how generous was her spirit at that moment—Clare put out her hand to Ned.

“You and Margie—love each other? How beautiful! Forgive me if I cry. I’m just glad you’re both so happy.” She turned her face against the pillow and began to cry softly. So different was it from her previous hysterical weeping that the priest drew a small, half-smothered sigh of relief. He rose, touching with kindly benediction the soft hair.

“Good night, Clare. Good night, all. I must be on my way.”

“But you haven’t congratulated us yet,” interrupted Margaret, springing to her feet and turning a beaming face upon him.

“May heaven send you its richest blessings, my daughter,” he told her gravely. “And you, too, Mr. Wentworth.” His hand went out to Ned in a hearty handshake.

Dr. Sloane had sunk into a nearby armchair, reminded painfully of his sciatica by twinges that doubled him up after his recent exertions. He waved one hand at the departing cleric.

“I really need a hankie,” apologized Clare comically from the depths of her cushion. Ned whipped out one and tried to dry her eyes in big-brotherly fashion. “I can do it better,” she said.

Ned suddenly threw a quick glance at the door. “Did someone come in?” he asked the doctor.

“No one.”