No such cry ever came.

We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour, before that closed door opened.

We shrank away, but it was only Father Francis, very pale and sad.

Our eyes asked the question our tongues would not utter.
"She knows all," he said, in a tremulous voice; "she has taken it very quietly--too quietly.

She has alarmed me--that unnatural calm is more distressing than the wildest outburst of weeping." "Shall we go to her ?" asked her father.
"I think not--I think she is better alone.