LITMIR.BIZ

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creed. He told me so the other day. And if I don't object," said Zella proudly, "I can't see why he should."

      "The cases are not at all the same," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans warmly. "He is a member of the True Church, and the Church of this country. You, my poor child, have let yourself be inveigled into a foreign affair, that one can hardly call a Church at all, without even the excuse of having been born into it. But I don't want to say anything about that; what's done is done, and, after all, these things can always be arranged."

      "It certainly won't be arranged by my changing my religion," said Zella, with some spirit.

      "You are hardly in a position to talk like that, my dear child, since you have turned once already. And it would be much easier to come back into the Church than to go out of it, since you would have the approval of your own conscience, which I always think helps one more than anything. But it's no use talking about a thing that can't happen just yet."

      "It will never happen," Zella interrupted, the more resolutely for the absence of any real feeling of indignation such as Reverend Mother would certainly have expected of her at the mere suggestion of ever renouncing the Catholic Faith.

      "Even if it doesn't," pursued Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with perfect calm, "as I say, there are always ways of arranging these things. I don't suppose that the Pope of Rome himself would have the face to say that any chopping and changing of Churches on the part of a girl under age would count for anything."

      "Then why do you want me to come back to the Church of England?" shrewdly demanded Zella.

      But Mrs. Lloyd-Evans was not to be defeated in an argument, least of all by her niece.

      "That would be a very different matter. The Pope would have nothing to do with it then," she truly observed, " and you would have your own friends and relations to help you. Blood is thicker than water, as you will find out as life goes on."

      Zella could see no logic in these arguments, but neither could she think of any adequate reply with which to defeat them, beyond repeating feebly:

      "But I couldn't ever be anything but a Catholic now, whatever happens; besides, I'm sure he wouldn't want me to."

      "Very well, dear, all the better," said her aunt, apparently unaware that she was flatly contradicting all her previous conclusions. "Only, I do not think that Stephen Pontisbury is at all the sort of man to stand any * nonsense from priests and people."

      "There wouldn't be any."

      "You are too young to understand that there are certain questions which may arise later on, where one has seen a great deal of unhappiness and perplexity from the parents belonging to different Churches."

      Mrs. Lloyd-Evans having accidentally betrayed the subject of her theme by the inadvertent introduction of the word " parents," there was nothing for it but to look slightly shocked, and continue in peculiarly hushed tones:

      "Naturally, I shouldn't speak of these things, but that you have no mother, my poor child, and one longs to help you a little for your own sake and for that of dear Esmee. I feel that all these perplexities would not have arisen if she had been spared to us, since there would have been no question of that unfortunate business of your going to a convent. However, the ways of Providence are not our ways, and there may be some good purpose behind it all, odd though it seems," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans doubtfully.

      Zella reflected rather amazedly that the purpose for which Providence had led her to the convent would have seemed obvious to the point of blatancy, in the eyes of Reverend Mother. She asked herself for the hundredth time, "Which is really true? What is real?" and was aware that the very question would, to Catholic minds, have appeared as a temptation.

      Her eyes grew introspective and unseeing, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans said firmly:

      "Darling, it is very late, and I can see you are getting sleepy. Go to bed, and don't worry about the question of religion. These things can always be arranged; a little something in the priest's pocket, and there will probably be no more question of coming between you and a happy marriage. Aunt Marianne can't help feeling that everything is going to come right."

      The optimist rose from the armchair and went to the door.

      "I'm very glad we've had a little talk, Zella dear, and you know Aunt Marianne is always there to help you when you want her."

      Zella was too responsive not to say affectionately:

      "Thank you, dear Aunt Marianne. I do know it, and I—I'm very glad you like him."

      Mrs. Lloyd-Evans kissed her.

      "Good-night, dear, or rather good-morning, since I always feel that the next day has begun after it has struck midnight. You must go to sleep quickly."

      "I do want to decide rightly, if I have to decide," spoke Zella wistfully, feeling that, after all, Aunt Marianne was leaving no very substantial help behind her.

      "I should say a little prayer about it, dear, if I were you. Now I must go, or Uncle Henry will be wondering if I mean to keep you up all night. Good-night, Zella dear."

      Aunt Marianne vanished, but reappeared next moment at the door in order to add, in a slightly Scriptural tone which she would not have employed had she been aware that she was quoting no more sacred authority than the poet Shakespeare:

      "Remember, Zella, that one is expressly told to go down upon one's knees and thank Heaven fasting for a good man's love."

      Upon which Zella heard her footsteps finally retreating down the passage.

      She did not go down upon her knees, but went slowly to the window and seated herself upon the broad cushioned sill.

      Zella wanted to think.

      The habit of introspection was far too strong for her not to be aware that this was the appropriate frame of mind for the occasion, but she could tell herself with truth that uncertainty was amongst her predominant emotions.

      She did not know if she loved Stephen. That he was in love with her she felt certain, and she wondered vaguely if the exultation raised in her at the thought was due to vanity or to a love that answered his.

      The latter explanation was naturally the more gratifying of the two, and that both might be true did not enter into Zella's calculations.

      She saw herself listening to Stephen's voice making love to her, heard herself replying, wisely, tenderly, yet with judgment, reserving her final decision until they should have known one another longer; no silly girl, blinded by the glamour of first love, but a thoughtful, self-controlled woman, whose surrender, when it came, should prove worth the waiting.

      She lingered for some time over this fancy portrait. A formal troth-plighting between herself and Stephen. The interest, congratulations, excitement, that Muriel's engagement had provoked, multiplied a thousand-fold. The engagement-ring—certainly a diamond marquise engagement-ring; a trousseau; a choice of bridesmaids. A wedding that even Aunt Marianne should see to be far prettier than Muriel's, although with a distinctive touch of unconventionality. A honeymoon in Egypt; or it would be slightly original to suggest Japan. And then

      Zella abandoned side-issues, and suddenly found herself envisaging the endless series of tête-à-têtes with Stephen, of which she supposed marriage would consist.

      "But we have all our interests in common," she told herself, and her own instinctive use of the qualifying "but" conveyed nothing to her. "Even Aunt Marianne says that he cares for my sort of things—books and poetry and—and Nature. And I'm not as young and childish as Aunt Marianne thinks me, or in the least romantic, and I know perfectly well that being in love doesn't last, whereas intellectual companionship does. That, and love, is the ideal foundation for marriage. And I think Stephen is in love with me."

      The thought suddenly became overwhelming, and she hid her face in her hands.

      Then the old feeling of distrust came over her:

      "Would he love me if he really knew me—knew all about the times that I have told lies, and pretended to be nicer than I am? If I told him he probably wouldn't

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