beside the fire, and looking longingly towards the
card table.

"Oh, no," replied Lucilla briefly, gazing into the fire, with hands
folded in her lap. Thin hands, showing up very white against the dull
colored "convent uniform" that hung in plain, severe folds about her
and reached to her very ankles.

"Oh, don't you? I play often at home when company comes. And I play
cribbage and _vingt-et-un_ with papa and win lots of money from him."

"That's wrong."

"No, it isn't; papa wouldn't do it if it was wrong," she answered
decidedly. "Do you go to the convent?" she asked, looking critically
at Lucilla and drawing a little nearer, so as to be confidential.
"Tell me about it," she continued, when the other had replied
affirmatively. "Is it very dreadful? you know they're going to send me
soon."

"Oh, it's the best place in the world," corrected Lucilla as eagerly
as she could.

"Well, mamma says she was just as happy as could be there, but you see
that's so awfully long ago. It must have changed since then."

"The convent never changes: it's always the same. You first go to
chapel to mass early in the morning."

"Ugh!" shuddered Ninette.

"Then you have studies," continued Lucilla. "Then breakfast, then
recreation, then classes, and there's meditation."

"Oh, well," interrupted Ninette, "I believe anything most would suit
you, and mamma when she was little; but if I don't like it--see here,
if I tell you something will you promise never, never, to tell?"

"Is it any thing wrong?"

"Oh, no, not very; it isn't a real mortal sin. Will you promise?"

"Yes," agreed Lucilla; curiosity getting something the better of her
pious scruples.

"Cross your heart?"

Lucilla crossed her heart carefully, though a little reluctantly.

"Hope you may die?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the little convent girl aghast.

"Oh, pshaw," laughed Ninette, "never mind. But that's what Polly
always says when she wants me to believe her: 'hope I may die, Miss
Ninette.' Well, this is it: I've been saving up money for the longest
time, oh ever so long. I've got eighteen dollars and sixty cents, and
when they send me to the convent, if I don't like it, I'm going to run
away." This last and startling revelation was told in a tragic whisper
in Lucilla's ear, for Betsy was standing before them with a tray of
chocolate and coffee that she was passing around.

"I yeard you," proclaimed Betsy with mischievous inscrutable
countenance.

"You didn't,"