t, in a spirit of murderous rage, beat the yellow
cat with a palm-branch for carrying off the young doves, her especial
charge? "Ah, my sins are great indeed," she sighed daily upon her knees,
and smote her breast with tears.

Keith watched the sea-bean go into the little heart-pocket almost with
compunction. Many of these amulets of the sea, gathered during his
winter rambles, had he bestowed with formal warning of their magic
powers, and many a fair hand had taken them, many a soft voice had
promised to keep them "for ever." But he well knew they would be mislaid
and forgotten in a day. The fair ones well knew it too, and each knew
that the other knew, so no harm was done. But this sea-bean, he thought,
would have a different fate--laid up in some little nook before the
shrine, a witness to the daily prayers of the simple-hearted little
Sister. "I hope they may do it good," he thought vaguely. Then,
reflecting that even the most depraved bean would not probably be much
affected by the prayers, he laughed off the fancy, yet did not quite
like to think, after all, that the prayers were of no use. Keith's
religion, however, was in the primary rocks.

Far down the beach they came upon a wreck, an old and long hidden relic
of the past. The low sand-bluff had caved away suddenly and left a clean
new side, where, imbedded in the lower part, they saw a ponderous mast.
"An old Spanish galleon," said Keith, stooping to examine the remains.
"I know it by the curious bolts. They ran ashore here, broadside on, in
one of those sudden tornadoes they have along this coast once in a
while, I presume. Singular! This was my very place for lying in the sun
and letting the blaze scorch me with its clear scintillant splendor. I
never imagined I was lying on the bones of this old Spaniard."

"God rest the souls of the sailors!" said the Sister, making the sign of
the cross.

"They have been in--wherever they are, let us say, for about three
centuries now," observed Keith, "and must be used to it, good or bad."

"Nay; but purgatory, senor."

"True. I had forgotten that," said Keith.

One morning there came up a dense, soft, southern-sea fog, "The kind you
can cut with a knife," Carrington said. It lasted for days, sweeping out
to sea at night on the land breeze, and lying in a gray bank low down on
the horizon, and then rolling in again in the morning enveloping the
water and the island in a thick white cloud which was not mist and di