"She has been gone an hour," said Sister Simplice.

Father Barry followed the nun, half dazed, to the upper hall, for as yet he could not grasp the force of his own miserable, late arrival. Outside the closed door of his mother's room he waited.

"Tell me all!" he implored. "I must know the worst—before I see her. Tell me everything; what she said at the very last." His voice broke into sobs as he dropped to a couch.

Sister Simplice drifted to his side. Her words were low and calm; only her delicate profile, with slightly quivering nostrils, expressed agitation. She looked straight beyond; not at the closed door. Like one rehearsing a part she began to speak. Father Barry's head sank forward into his hands. The nun's story fell gently, mercifully softened. As she went on the priest raised his eyes. Sister Simplice dreaded the question burning on his lips.

"And she did not believe that I had neglected her—forgotten to come to her on my birthday?"

"She thought no ill of her son," the nun answered. "When I came last night the danger of her first sudden attack seemed to be over. She had rallied, was perfectly conscious. 'He will come in the morning, when the storm is over,' she told us at midnight. 'Yes,' I said, 'he will surely come. Day will bring him safe from his hiding place.'"

Father Barry bowed his head.

"You remember that you telephoned in the early afternoon? The storm had already interfered with service. She could not catch your words, felt only that you were detained upon some errand of mercy. When Pat Murphy brought the flowers to the hospital he said nothing whatever of your movements. This morning he happened to come with your mail, just after the dear one passed away. I sent him out to find you." The priest wept softly. "We had no thought of the end when it came," the nun went on. "So quickly, so peacefully, she left us. She seemed to be much better with the dawn, for the storm that kept you from her side had abated. She was expecting you every moment. She had no thought of death." Sister Simplice crossed herself. "Faithful Nora had brought a cup of nourishment, we were about to offer it, when, brightening like her old self, she begged for a fresh shawl."

"I understand," the priest faltered. "She wished to look neat and charming. And it was all for me!" he burst out. "She wanted me to find her as usual—like her pretty self."

"Yes," the nun answered, "she asked for a shawl you admired—the one with a touch of lavender. Nora brought a white cape from the closet, but she motioned it away. 'I wish my fine new shawl, the one my son likes best,' she pleaded. We were gone from the bedside but a moment, both searching in the closet. Your dear mother was unconscious, almost gone, when we returned."

Sister Simplice crossed herself again. The priest could not speak. Stillness followed the nun's story; only the ticking of a clock disturbed his pent thoughts. Suddenly the man burst forth as a boy.

"I should have come to her sooner!" he confessed. "I knew that she had not been well the week before; but I thought her slight attack was from the stomach. How could I dream of this! She assured me that she felt like herself, and the morning of my birthday"—he hesitated—"the morning of my birthday I was compelled to go to the bishop."

"Yes," the nun interrupted—"she understood—knew how you were working for the cathedral. Her pride in your success was beautiful. She asked for no hour which justly belonged to the service of your Church."

"Thank God! she never knew—died believing in me—thought I had succeeded," the priest cried passionately. The nun lifted her crucifix.

"The blessed saints ordained that she should think nothing but good of her son—her priest—her one earthly idol." Sister Simplice clasped her hands. "Have no fear for her soul. A soul—such as hers—must rise freed from transient torment. Soon she will follow from afar—follow her son's great earthly work." Father Barry groaned.

"You do not understand; do not know that I am almost glad that my mother has gone—passed safely beyond. She was a good Catholic. If she had lived—" he rose to his feet and stood before the trembling sister—"if she had lived to know the truth she might have rebelled, have doubted."

The sister flushed, then turned pale. Nun that she was, she had heard gossip. "The bishop has not put you aside?" she faltered. She raised her crucifix. "He hasn't interfered with your work—with the building of the cathedral?"

The priest signified the worst. "My labor has been in vain," he acknowledged. "I am ordered from the parish like an incompetent. I thank God that she never knew!"

Sister Simplice shrank as from a blow. The suspended priest saw by the motion of her lips that she was praying. Her slender fingers clung fiercely to the rosary. She seemed to dread her own words. She could not trust her voice, dared not lift her face. Tears were slipping from beneath the delicate eyelids.

"Forgive me!" cried her confessor. "I dare not tamper with your faith. Forget that you have been listening I implore you."

The nun raised the dark fringes which had seemed a rebuke; but before she spoke, Father Barry was gone, vanishing behind the closed door of his mother's death chamber.