sweet--soft and sweet. When Sister Teresa plays the evening
hymn it is like the sighing of angels."

"But your organ is probably small, senora."

"We have not thought it small. It remains in our chapel, by the window
of arches, and below we walk, at the hour of meditation, from the
lime-tree to the white-rose bush, and back again, while the music sounds
above. We have not thought it small, but large--yes, very large."

"Four feet long, probably," said Carrington, who was smoking an evening
pipe, now listening to the talk awhile, now watching the movements of
two white heron who were promenading down the beach. "I saw the one over
in the village church. It was about as long as this step."

"Yes," said the Sister, surveying the step, "it is about as long as
that. It is a very large organ."

"Walk with me down to the point," said Keith--"just once and back
again."

The docile little Sister obeyed; she always did immediately whatever
they told her to do.

"I want you to listen now; stand still and listen--listen to the sea,"
said Keith, when they had turned the point and stood alone on the shore.
"Try to think only of the pure, deep, blue water, and count how
regularly the sound rolls up in long, low chords, dying away and then
growing louder, dying away and then growing louder, as regular as your
own breath. Do you not hear it?"

"Yes," said the little Sister timorously.

"Keep time, then, with your hand, and let me see whether you catch the
measure."

So the small brown hand, nerveless and slender, tried to mark and
measure the roar of the great ocean surges, and at last succeeded, urged
on by the alternate praises and rebukes of Keith, who watched with some
interest a faint color rise in the pale oval face, and an intent
listening look come into the soft, unconscious eyes, as, for the first
time, the mind caught the mighty rhythm of the sea. She listened, and
listened, standing mute, with head slightly bent and parted lips.

"I want you to listen to it in that way every day," said Keith, as he
led the way back. "It has different voices: sometimes a fresh, joyous
song, sometimes a faint, loving whisper; but always something. You will
learn in time to love it, and then it will sing to you all day long."

"Not at the dear convent; there is no ocean there."

"You want to go back to the convent?"

"Oh, could I go! could I go!" said the Sister, not impatiently, but with
an intense yearning in her low voice. "H