ld herself from the terrible
light of day. But the veil had gone down into the thicket, whither she
dared not follow. She stood irresolute.

"I will get it for you before the others come back," said Keith. "It is
gone now, however, and what is more, you could not help it; so sit
down, like a sensible creature, and enjoy the breeze."

The little nun sat down, and confusedly tried to be a sensible
creature. Her head, with its short rings of dark hair, rose childlike
from the black gown she wore, and the breeze swept freshly over her;
but her eyes were full of tears, and her face so pleading in its pale,
silent distress, that at length Keith went down and brought back the
veil.

"See the cranes flying home," he said, as the long line dotted the red
of the west. "They always seem to be flying right into the sunset,
sensible birds."

The little Sister had heard that word twice now; evidently the cranes
were more sensible than she. She sighed as she fastened on the veil;
there were a great many hard things out in the world, then, she
thought. At the dear convent it was not expected that one should be as
a crane.

The other two came back at length, wet and triumphant, with their
prize. They had stopped to bail it out, plug its cracks, mend the old
sail after a fashion, and nothing would do but that the three should
sail home in it; Pedro, for whom there was no room, returning by the
way they had come. Carrington, having worked hard, was determined to
carry out his plan; and said so.

"A fine plan to give us all a wetting," remarked Keith.

"You go down there and work an hour or two yourself, and see how _you_
like it," answered the other, with the irrelevance produced by aching
muscles and perspiration dripping from every pore.

This conversation had taken place at the edge of the marsh where they
had brought the boat up through one of the numerous channels.

"Very well," said Keith. "But mind you, not a word about danger before
the Sister. I shall have hard enough work to persuade her to come with
us as it is."

He went back to the ridge, and carelessly suggested returning home by
water. "You will not have to go through the thicket then," he said.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sister St. Luke consented immediately, and
followed without a word as he led the way. She was mortally afraid of
the water, but, during his absence, she had been telling her beads, and
thinking with contrition of two obstinacies in one day: t