ay evening, but if
they prolonged their enjoyment beyond eight o'clock, the hostel
supper-bell would ring, and any girl not in her place at the table would
lose a mark for punctuality.

"He" on the other side of the window, was waxing sentimental about old
times and bygone days.

"I'm glad you're not a nun, darling!" he remarked fatuously. "If you had
lived in the ancient Abbey, I shouldn't have been able to walk about the
garden with you, should I?"

"I suppose not," she ventured, "especially if you'd been a monk."

"I dare say some of them _did_ manage to do a little love-making
sometimes, though. What's that story about the ghost?"

"The White Nun, do you mean? The one that haunts the College gardens?"

(Ingred pricked up her ears at this).

"Yes. Isn't there some legend or other about her?"

"I believe there is, but I've forgotten it. I only know she walks on
moonlight nights, down the steps by the sun-dial, and then disappears
into the wall near the Abbey. At least she's supposed to. I've never met
anybody who's seen her. Don't talk of such shuddery things! You make me
feel creepy!"

Apparently he offered masculine protection, for another suggestive sound
was followed by a giggle and a remonstrance. The hostel bell was
ringing, and the Abbey clock was striking eight. Were they going to stay
talking all night? Ingred was growing desperate. She wondered how she
was going to explain her absence to Mrs. Best. She even debated whether
it would be advisable to open the summer-house door, bolt across the
lawn, and trust to luck that the matter was not reported at the College.
She had her hand on the latch when the feminine voice outside remarked:

"It's getting chilly, Donald!"

"Don't catch cold, darling!" with tender solicitude. "Would you rather
go indoors?"

"Hooray!" triumphed Ingred inwardly, though she did not dare to utter a
sound.

It took a little while for the lovers to get under way and finally
stroll back along the path among the bushes. Ingred gave them time to
walk out of sight and hearing, then made a dash for the rockery,
scrambled over the wall, tore across the tennis courts, and entered the
dining-room nearly ten minutes late for supper. Mrs. Best looked at her
reproachfully, and Doreen, who was monitress for the month, took a
notebook from her pocket and made an entry therein. Nora and Verity and
Fil went on eating sago blanc-mange with stolid countenances that
betrayed no knowledge of