Ailsa stood with one hand resting on the mantel, a trifle pale but also silent, her startled eyes following this new incarnation wearing the familiar shape of Celia Craig.
"Ailsa!" "Yes, dear." "Can you think evil of a people who po' out their hearts in prayer and praise?
Do traitors importune fo' blessings ?" She turned nervously to the piano and struck a ringing chord, another--and dropped to the chair, head bowed on her slim childish neck.

Presently there stole through the silence a tremulous voice intoning the "Libera Nos," with its strange refrain: "_A furore Normanorum Libera nos, O Domme_!" Then, head raised, the gas-light flashing on her dull-gold hair, her voice poured forth all that was swelling and swelling up in her bruised and stifled heart: "God of our fathers! King of Kings! Lord of the earth and sea! With hearts repentant and sincere We turn in need to thee." She saw neither her children nor her husband nor Ailsa now, where they gathered silently beside her.

And she sang on: "In the name of God! Amen! Stand for our Southern rights; On our side.

Southern men, The God of Battles fights! Fling the invader far-- Hurl back his work of woe-- His voice is the voice of a brother, But his hands are the hands of a foe.
By the blood which cries to Heaven.
Crimson upon our sod Stand, Southrons, fight and conquer In the Name of the Living God!" Like receding battle echoes the chords, clashing distantly, died away.
If she heard her husband turn, enter the hallway, and unbolt the door, she made no sign.

Ailsa, beside her, stooped and passed one arm around her.
"You--are not crying, are you, Celia, darling ?" she whispered.
Her sister-in-law, lashes wet, rose with decision.
"I think that I have made a goose of myse'f to-night.