d
not seem damp even, so freshly, softly salt was the feeling it gave to
the faces that went abroad in it. Carrington and Keith, of course, must
needs be out in it every moment of the time. They walked down the beach
for miles, hearing the muffled sound of the near waves, but not seeing
them. They sailed in it not knowing whither they went, and they drifted
out at sunset and watched the land breeze lift it, roll it up, and carry
it out to sea, where distant ships on the horizon line, bound southward,
and nearer ones, sailing northward with the Gulf Stream, found
themselves enveloped and bothered by their old and baffling foe. They
went over to the reef every morning, these two, and bathed in the fog,
coming back by sense of feeling, as it were, and landing not
infrequently a mile below or above the lighthouse; then what appetites
they had for breakfast! And, if it was not ready, they roamed about,
roaring like young lions. At least that is what Melvyna said one morning
when Carrington had put his curly head into her kitchen door six times
in the course of one half hour.

The Sister shrank from the sea fog; she had never seen one before, and
she said it was like a great soft white creature that came in on wings,
and brooded over the earth. "Yes, beautiful, perhaps," she said in reply
to Keith, "but it is so strange--and--and--I know not how to say it--but
it seems like a place for spirits to walk, and not of the mortal kind."

They were wandering down the beach, where Keith had lured her to listen
to the sound of the hidden waves. At that moment Carrington loomed into
view coming toward them. He seemed of giant size as he appeared, passed
them, and disappeared again into the cloud behind, his voice sounding
muffled as he greeted them. The Sister shrank nearer to her companion as
the figure had suddenly made itself visible. "Do you know it is a wonder
to me how you have ever managed to live so far," said Keith smiling.

"But it was not far," said the little nun. "Nothing was ever far at the
dear convent, but everything was near, and not of strangeness to make
one afraid; the garden wall was the end. There we go not outside, but
our walk is always from the lime-tree to the white rose-bush and back
again. Everything we know there--not roar of waves, not strong wind, not
the thick, white air comes to give us fear, but all is still and at
peace. At night I dream of the organ, and of the orange-trees, and of
the doves. I wak