Sisera?

How long the happy woman sat there, exulting in the mellowness of the
perfect fruit of patience, she never knew.

Day died slowly; the vivid crimson and dazzling gold that fired the
West were reflected in the tranquil bosom of the lake, faded into the
tender pale rose of the sacred lotus, into the exquisite tints that
gild the outer petals of a daffodil, the heart of buttercups; and
then, robed in faintest violet powdered with silvery dust, the vast
pinions of Crepuscule spread over sky and water, fanning into full
flame the glittering sparks of planets and constellations that lighted
the chariot course of the coming moon.

Across the sleeping lake hurried a north wind, on its long journey to
blow open the snowy camellias folded close in the heart of the South,
and under his winged sandals the waters crimped, rippled, swelled into
wavelets that played their minor adagio in nature's nocturn, as their
foam fingers fell on the pebbles that fringed the beach. From the deck
of a schooner anchored off shore, floated the deep voice of a man
singing Schubert's "Ave Maria"; and far, far away over the weird waste
of waters, where a buoy marked a sunken wreck, its red beacon burned
like the eye of Polyphemus, crouching in darkness, watching to
surprise Galatea.

The penetrating chill of the night air aroused Beryl from her profound
trance; and lighting the gas over her dressing table, she re-read the
magical words that had transformed her narrow world. This was Monday
the 26th, and next Saturday was the limit of the proposed interview.
One day must suffice for necessary preparation, and starting by early
morning express on Wednesday, she would arrive in time to keep the
tryst that involved so much. She cut out the notice that was merely a
sentence in the page of social hieroglyphics, where no key fitted more
than one paragraph, and forgetting the criticism on her picture, she
went swiftly down stairs.

The members of the Sisterhood were at supper, and she waited at the
refectory door for an opportunity to meet the matron.

On the platform raised in the centre of the long room, sat the reader
for the day, Sister Agatha; a plump, florid young woman, with bright
black eyes, and a voice sweet and strong as the flute stop of an organ.
The selection that evening had been from "Agate Windows" and "Ice
Morsels", and the closing words were:

"Alpine flowers are warmed by snow; the summer beauty of our hills, and
the au