s submerged; on a sudden
Gabriel will blow and the world will cease revolving, and then--where
wilt thou be, oh, maid that hath fluttered from sweet to sweet and
forgotten thy prayers?" There came a great happy sigh from the
testered bed--

"Thou hast powerful breath, Janet, and 'twas an immense bitterwort
bush thou were beating about. I am sorry I forgot my prayers. I will
say them twenty times to-day, to make up."

"And it's the heathen that repeateth a prayer oft; thou hadst better
say 'God, have mercy upon my untowardness!' once, from thy heart, than
to say thy rosary from now until doom with thy mind upon a bumptious
Russian."

"What is the day, Janet?"

"'Tis as bleak and stormy as one could wish."

"What is the hour?"

"Eleven."

"Eleven? and I was to meet Count Adrian at this very hour. He is to
teach me battledore and shuttlecock."

"'Tis a fussy game, played more with the heart than hand; canst give
it up; let me rub thee to sleep again?"

"Nay, for I would not disappoint him or--myself."

An hour later she stood opposite the count in the great library,
swinging the battledore with grace. There was much soft laughter and
gay repartee; and Adrian followed the movements of Katherine's lithe
form, clad in the soft, clinging grey of the convent. She became
remiss; for Adrian's glances were confusing, and intentional laches
were made by him, that he might come near her, almost touching her
hair in bending to recover the ball. She was flushed and eager,
triumphant of a fine return, when the door flew open and in came a
number of gallants, among whom was Lord Cedric. His face flushed a
warm red and he shot a glance of jealousy at Adrian as he bent low
over Katherine's hand. After a few commonplace remarks, they passed on
up the stairway to the broad landing, on which was an arched door that
led to the passage opening into the organ loft of the chapel. In a few
moments there came the sound of the organ. Katherine swung low her
battledore and breathed forth:

"Let us listen; 'tis sweet, who plays, dost know?"

"'Tis St. Mar, a fine fellow; a soldier, duelist and gallant."

"'Thou dost flank duelist by two words that should scorn being so
separated!'"

"'Twas a happy wording; for if thou shouldst meet him, thou wilt
fall but two-thirds in love, whereas, if otherwise worded 'twould be
altogether."

"Thou art giving my heart an evil reputation; for after all 'tis not
so easy won."

"'Tis true, as I