looked again; for the little girl was so pretty, and so happy, and the man's face was unusual. 

 The curtain had not gone up. They were a good fifteen minutes early. 

 "You see, Father McGowan-dear," said Cecilia, "it was not just their fault, for I am so different. I am still, but less so.... Then one day they said more than usual while I was reading that Sordello poem.  (It isn't interesting, is it?)"  Father McGowan smiled and shook his head.  "And I thought I just couldn't stand it. I was so miserable that I even thought of taking the veil!"  Father McGowan laughed suddenly. Cecilia looked at him with questioning eyes.  "Go on, dear," he said gently, "and excuse a bad-mannered old priest." 

 She squeezed his thumb and continued: "Well, it was that day I decided to go home. I decided I could not be a lady, I mean I could not acquire a savoir faire (that means a natural swellness)," explained Cecilia. Father McGowan nodded. His eyes twinkled.  "So," said Cecilia, "I took all my money, and put on my hat and sneaked out. Then I walked down the block and across the Park. I saw a baby in the Park, a little girl, and she makes me think of Johnny when he was little and I took care of him. Then I thought of maw, and how she wanted me learned, I mean taught, and I went back. I am not very brave, and I wanted to cry dreadfully. I got in the hall, and there was Mrs. De Pui. She looked awfully cold, and she said, 'May I ask where you have been, Cecilia?' and then, that green-eyed girl I hated broke right in and said, 'I had a slight headache, and I asked her to post a letter for me, Mrs. De Pui. I hope you don't mind.'  The green-eyed girl is very rich, and so Mrs. De Pui said so sweetly that she hadn't minded at all. 

 "She always says 'post' instead of 'mail,' Father McGowan-dear. She spent two weeks in London last summer, and she said that the English accent became unconscious, or at least that she used it unconsciously. And she does except when she gets excited or talks fast. 

 "Well, she followed me upstairs, the green-eyed one, her name is Marjory, and I said, 'I do thank you.'  Then I felt mean about the way I'd felt toward her, and I added, 'I am very sorry that I have hated you so.'  Then she kissed me, Father McGowan-dear. Really, she did, and she said she was glad I'd hated her. That it helped. She went down the hall, and paused at the turn to say, 'It is a great deal to ask, but some day I hope you'll like me!'  Oh,—the curtain's going up! Look at that yellow dress. Aren't her legs 

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