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 rosebush 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 wake, and hear only the sound of the great water below."

"You will go back," said Keith.

He had begun to pity her lately, for her longing was deeper than he had
supposed. It had its roots in her very being. He had studied her and
found it so.

"She will die of pure homesickness if she stays here much longer," he
said to Carrington, "What do you think of our writing down to that old
convent and offering--of course unknown to her--to pay the little she
costs them, if they will take her back?"

"All right," said Carrington. "Go ahead."

He was making a larger sail for his paroquet boat. "If none of you will
go out in her, I might as well have all the sport I can," he said.

"Sport to consist in being swamped?" Keith asked.

"By no means, croaker. Sport to consist in shooting over the water like
a rocket; I sitting on the tilted edge, watching the waves, the winds,
and the clouds, and hearing the water sing as we rush