She went in and extinguished the lamp, and
then came back to Beatrice.

"Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?" she asked.

"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed." Then she thanked her companion again and
kissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek.

"Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and ever!"
said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She needed
no light in the familiar way to her cell.

Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought out
a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lamp
that had illuminated so many strange sights that night.

She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrote
a plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong,
devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting.

"Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlour
of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter is
very important."

She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten
her in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together.
Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good,
he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, and
she remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy,
and his gnome-like attempts at grace.

She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not
ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly
two o'clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep.

As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was
amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise
themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results,
always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors
themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem.

Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present
moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken
her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness
at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enough
then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwell
long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionate
outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole world
loved him, and small wonder. S