ined it below stairs, when the porter remarked that
initials looked mysterious.

The Mother Superior had replied. Sydney trembled as she opened the
letter. It began kindly.

"I believe you, my child, and I am anxious to help you. But I cannot
correspond with an unknown person. If you decide to reveal yourself,
it is only right to add that I have shown your letter to the Reverend
Father who, in temporal as in spiritual things, is our counselor and
guide. To him I must refer you, in the first instance. His wisdom will
decide the serious question of receiving you into our Holy Church, and
will discover, in due time, if you have a true vocation to a religious
life. With the Father's sanction, you may be sure of my affectionate
desire to serve you."

Sydney put the letter back in the envelope, feeling gratefully toward
the Mother Superior, but determined by the conditions imposed on her to
make no further advance toward the Benedictine community.

Even if her motive in writing to the convent had remained unchallenged,
the allusions to the priest would still have decided her on taking this
step. The bare idea of opening her inmost heart, and telling her saddest
secrets, to a man, and that man a stranger, was too repellent to be
entertained for a moment. In a few lines of reply, gratefully and
respectfully written, she thanked the Mother Superior, and withdrew from
the correspondence.

The letter having been closed, and posted in the hotel box, she returned
to the sitting-room free from the one doubt that had troubled her; eager
to show Herbert how truly she believed in him, how hopefully she looked
to the future.

With a happy smile on her lips she opened the door. She was on the
point of asking him playfully if he had felt surprised at her long
absence--when the sight that met her eyes turned her cold with terror in
an instant.

His arms were stretched out on the table; his head was laid on them,
despair confessed itself in his attitude; grief spoke in the deep
sobbing breaths that shook him. Love and compassion restored Sydney's
courage; she advanced to raise him in her arms--and stopped once more.
The book on the table caught her eye. He was still unconscious of her
presence; she ventured to open it. She read the inscription--looked at
him--looked back at the writing--and knew the truth at last.

The rigor of the torture that she suffered paralyzed all outward
expression of pain. Quietly she put the book back on