with several packages, elbowed his way. A moment later, Beryl's
foot struck some obstacle, and looking down she saw a large portfolio
lying on the pavement. It was a handsome morocco case, with the
initials "G. McI.", stamped in gilt upon the cover, which was tied with
well-worn strings. She held it up, looked around, even turned back,
thinking that the owner might have returned to search for it; but the
gentleman who had hurried through the crowd was no longer visible, and
in the distance she fancied she saw a similar figure cross the street,
and spring upon a car rolling in the opposite direction.

The human clot had dissolved, the juvenile assembly had drifted away;
and as no one appeared to claim the lost article, she signalled to the
driver of the car passing just then, entered and took a seat in one
corner. The only passengers were two nurses with bands of little ones,
seeking fresh air in a neighboring park; and slipping the book under
her veil, Beryl began to examine its contents. A glance showed her that
it belonged to some artist, and was filled with sketches neatly
numbered and dated; while between the leaves lay specimens of ferns and
lichens carefully pressed.

The studies were varied, and in all stages of advancement; here two elk
heads and a buffalo; there a gaunt coyote crouching in the chaparral; a
cluster of giant oaks; far off, a waving line of mountain peaks; a
canon with vultures sailing high above it; cow boys, and a shoreless
sea of prairie, with no shadows except those cast by filmy clouds
drifting against the sun. Slowly turning the leaves, which showed
everywhere a master's skilful hand, Beryl found two sheets of paper
tied together with a strand of silk; and between them lay a fold of
tissue paper, to preserve some delicate lines. She untied the knot, and
carefully lifted the tissue, looking at the sketch.

A faint, inarticulate cry escaped her, and she sank back an instant in
the corner of the seat; but the chatter of the nurses, and the
whimpering wail of one dissatisfied baby mercifully drowned the sound.
The car, the trees on the Street, the belfry of a church seemed
spinning in some witch's dance, and an icy wind swept over and chilled
her. She threw aside her veil, stooped, and her lips whitened.

What was there in the figure of a kneeling monk, to drive the blood in
cold waves to her throbbing heart? The sketch represented the head and
shoulders of a man, whose cowl had fallen back,