a man of strange and varied experiences. Had he not
married a woman of wonder--of an energy unfathomable? And he lived with
her alone in a light-house, on an island; alone, mind you, without a
friend or relation near!

The six feet that walked over the beautiful beach of the southern ocean
were those of Keith, Carrington, and Sister St. Luke.

"Now go, Miss Luke," Melvyna had said, waving her energetically away
with the skimmer as she stood irresolute at the kitchen door. "'Twill
do you a power of good, and they're nice, quiet gentlemen who will see
to you, and make things pleasant. Bless you, _I_ know what they are.
They ain't none of the miserable, good-for-nothing race about here!
Your convent is fifty miles off, ain't it? And besides, you were
brought over here half dead for me to cure up--now, warn't you?"

The Sister acknowledged that she was, and Melvyna went on.

"You see, things is different up north, and I understand 'em, but you
don't. Now you jest go right along and hev a pleasant walk, and I'll
hev a nice bowl of venison broth ready for you when you come back. Go
right along now." The skimmer waved again, and the Sister went.

"Yes, she's taken the veil, and is a nun for good and all," explained
Melvyna to her new guests the evening of their arrival, when the shy
little Sister had retreated to her own room above. "They thought she
was dying, and she was so long about it, and useless on their hands,
that they sent her up here to the village for sea air, and to be red of
her, I guess. 'T any rate, there she was in one of them crowded, dirty
old houses, and so--I jest brought her over here. To tell the truth,
gentlemen--the real bottom of it--my baby died last year--and--and Miss
Luke she was so good I'll never forget it. I ain't a Catholic--fur from
it; I hate 'em. But she seen us coming up from the boat with our little
coffin, and she came out and brought flowers to lay on it, and followed
to the grave, feeble as she was; and she even put in her little black
shawl, because the sand was wet--this miserable half-afloat land, you
know--and I couldn't abear to see the coffin set down into it. And I
said to myself then that I'd never hate a Catholic again, gentlemen. I
don't love 'em yet, and don't know as I ever shell; but Miss Luke,
she's different. Consumption? Well, I hardly know. She's a sight better
than she was when she come. I'd like to make her well again, and,
someway, I can't help a-trying to, for