int of view."

"Well," she said, busying herself about the room with quick and
noiseless movements, "but it is always terrible to hear of such a
thing when one reflects that we are all so unprepared."

"For what, my sister?"

"For death," she answered, with a look of awe in the most innocent
eyes in the world.

"But who is dead?"

"Three hundred people," she answered. "The passengers and crew of the
_Principe Amadeo_--a large steamer that sailed last night from Genoa,
with emigrants for South America."

"And all are drowned?" I asked, after a pause, thankful that my face
was in the shadow of the curtain.

"All, except two of the crew. The steamer had only left the harbour an
hour before, and all the passengers were at dinner. There came, I
think, a fog, and in the darkness a collision occurred. The _Principe
Amadeo_ went down in five minutes."

She spoke quietly, and with that calm which religion, doubtless, gave
her. Indeed, her only thought seemed to be that these people had
passed to their account without the ministrations of the church.

She soon left me, having my promise to sleep quietly and at once.
Soeur Renee, despite her grey hairs and the wrinkles that the years
(for her life seemed purged of other cause) had left, was an easy
victim to deception.

I did not sleep, but lay awake for many hours, turning over in my mind
the events that had followed each other so quickly. And one thought
came ever uppermost--namely, that in the smallest details of our
existence a judgment far superior to ours must of necessity be at
work. This wiser judgment I detected in the chance, as some will call
it, that sent Sister Renee to me with this news. For if Sander had
told me of the sinking of the _Principe Amadeo_ I must assuredly, in
the heat of the moment, have disclosed to him, in return, my knowledge
that the Vicomte de Clericy was on board of her when she sailed from
Genoa. Whereas, now that I had time to reflect, I saw clearly that
this news belonged to Madame de Clericy alone, and was in nowise the
business of Mr. Sander. That keen-witted man had faithfully performed
the duty on which he had been employed--namely, to enable me to lay my
hands on Charles Miste. One half of the money--a fortune in
itself--had been recovered. There remained, therefore, nothing but to
pay Mr. Sander and bid him farewell.

I was, however, compelled to await the arrival of Alphonse Giraud, who
telegraphed to me that he was still