lked on. He knew that he talked well, and he did
not confuse her with more than one subject, but dwelt upon the marsh;
stories of men who had been lost in them, of women who had floated down
in boats and never returned; descriptions clear as etchings; studies of
the monotone of hues before them--one subject pictured over and over
again, as, wishing to instruct a child, he would have drawn with a chalk
one letter of the alphabet a hundred times, until the wandering eyes had
learned at last to recognize and know it.

"Do you see nothing at all, feel nothing at all?" he said. "Tell me
exactly."

Thus urged, the Sister replied that she thought she did feel the salt
breeze a little.

"Then take off that shroud and enjoy it," said Keith, extending his arm
suddenly, and sweeping off the long veil by the corner that was nearest
to him.

"Oh!" said the little Sister--"oh!" and distressfully she covered her
head with her hands, as if trying to shield herself from the terrible
light of day. But the veil had gone down into the thicket, whither she
dared not follow. She stood irresolute.

"I will get it for you before the others come back," said Keith. "It is
gone now, however, and, what is more, you could not help it; so sit
down, like a sensible creature, and enjoy the breeze."

The little nun sat down, and confusedly tried to be a sensible creature.
Her head, with its short rings of dark hair, rose childlike from the
black gown she wore, and the breeze swept freshly over her; but her eyes
were full of tears, and her face so pleading in its pale, silent
distress, that at length Keith went down and brought back the veil.

"See the cranes flying home," he said, as the long line dotted the red
of the west. "They always seem to be flying right into the sunset,
sensible birds!"

The little Sister had heard that word twice now; evidently the cranes
were more sensible than she. She sighed as she fastened on the veil;
there were a great many hard things out in the world, then, she thought.
At the dear convent it was not expected that one should be as a crane.

The other two came back at length, wet and triumphant, with their prize.
They had stopped to bail it out, plug its cracks, mend the old sail
after a fashion, and nothing would do but that the three should sail
home in it, Pedro, for whom there was no room, returning by the way they
had come. Carrington, having worked hard, was determined to carry out
his plan; and said so