Part 6 (1/2)

Milly raised doubts which subsided in a kind of awe when Agatha faced her with the evidence of dates.

”You remember, Milly, the night when he slept.”

”I do remember. He said himself it was miraculous.”

She meditated.

”And so you think it's that?” she said presently.

”I do indeed. If I dared leave off (I daren't) you'd see for yourself.”

”What do you think you've got hold of?”

”I don't know yet.”

There was a long deep silence which Milly broke.

”What do you _do_?” she said.

”I don't do anything. It isn't me.”

”I see,” said Milly. ”_I_'ve prayed. You didn't think I hadn't.”

”It's not that--not anything you mean by it. And yet it is; only it's more, much more. I can't explain it. I only know it isn't me.”

She was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable about having told her.

”And Milly, you mustn't tell him. Promise me you won't tell him.”

”No, I won't tell him.”

”Because you see, he'd think it was all rot.”

”He would,” said Milly. ”It's the sort of thing he does think rot.”

”And that might prevent its working.”

Milly smiled faintly. ”I haven't the ghost of an idea what 'it' is. But whatever it is, can you go on doing it?”

”Yes, I think so. You see, it depends rather----”

”It depends on what?”

”Oh, on a lot of things--on your sincerity; on your--your purity. It depends so much on _that_ that it frightens you lest, perhaps, you mightn't, after all, be so very pure.”

Milly smiled again, a little differently. ”Darling, if that's all, I'm not frightened. Only--supposing--supposing you gave out? You might, you know.”

”_I_ might. But It couldn't. You mustn't think it's me, Milly. Because if anything happened to me, if I did give out, don't you see how it would let him down? It's as bad as thinking it's the place.”