louder bell rang out, the
door opened, and in walked the Mother-Superior at the head of her little
army of novices.

They quickly grouped themselves round the altar, moved in utter silence
like phantoms and subsided into graceful attitudes, apparently absorbed
in devotion. The sight was as charming as it was painful: for who could
say how many of these young girls were voluntarily renouncing the world,
or in the least realised what they were doing?

Before passing out we gave a last look at this angelic vision. Quiet as
we were we did not move exactly like phantoms. The meaning of our slight
stir penetrated beyond the screen. It was too great a temptation for the
fair young novice we have described. She felt that her last hope was
dissolving, and she turned towards H. C. with a gaze that would have
moved a stone.

Fortunately his eyes were buried in his handkerchief, or it is certain
that we should never have left the chapel in the state in which we found
it. The screen would have gone; the Mother-Superior defied, there would
have been rout and consternation, the alarm bell rung, and perhaps--who
knows?--a priest would have appeared upon the scene and married this
romantic Romeo and Juliet. The novices would have turned into
bridesmaids, and the Mother-Superior have given away her spiritual
daughter. A lovely transformation scene indeed! Slighter currents have
before now changed the course of nations.

The door closed upon us without tragic event or catastrophe. Through the
deluge we waded to the hotel.

The long dining-room was now empty. The waiter brought us coffee and
cognac, ordered to restore H. C.'s nervous system; we paid our bill,
which was by no means as modest as the pretensions of the inn; and under
the faithful and unfailing pilotage of Sebastien, departed for the
railway station. The poor fellow looked melancholy.

"Oh, senor, I wish you were going to stay a week," he cried. "I did hope
you would be here for at least four days."

"The fates forbid!"--horrified at the bare thought. "A week here in such
weather would make one desperate, Sebastien. Remember that we have no
fair Anita to turn all our thistles to roses, dull streets into a
paradise."

Sebastien sighed. "To-morrow the sun will shine, senor. You would not
know Manresa again under a blue sky."

"But our poet friend declares the rainy season has begun. This deluge is
to last many days, if not weeks, Sebastien."

"It is a mistake," said