rabs, but she still fled from the fiddlers when they strayed over from
their towns in the marsh; she still went carefully around the great
jelly-fish sprawling on the beach, and regarded from a safe distance the
beautiful blue Portuguese men-of-war, stranded unexpectedly on the
dangerous shore, all their fair voyagings over. Keith collected for her
the brilliant sea-weeds, little flecks of color on the white sand, and
showed her their beauties; he made her notice all the varieties of
shells, enormous conches for the tritons to blow, and beds of wee pink
ovals and cornucopias, plates and cups for the little web-footed
fairies. Once he came upon a sea-bean.

"It has drifted over from one of the West Indian islands," he said,
polishing it with his handkerchief--"one of the islands--let us say
Miraprovos--a palmy tropical name, bringing up visions of a volcanic
mountain, vast cliffs, a tangled gorgeous forest, and the soft lapping
wash of tropical seas. Is it not so, senora?"

But the senora had never heard of the West Indian Islands. Being told,
she replied: "As you say it, it is so. There is, then, much land in the
world?"

"If you keep the sea-bean for ever, good will come," said Keith, gravely
presenting it; "but, if after having once accepted it you then lose it,
evil will fall upon you."

The Sister received the amulet with believing reverence. "I will lay it
up before the shrine of Our Lady," she said, carefully placing it in the
little pocket over her heart, hidden among the folds of her gown, where
she kept her most precious treasures--a bead of a rosary that had
belonged to some saint who lived somewhere some time, a little faded
prayer copied in the handwriting of a young nun who had died some years
before and whom she had dearly loved, and a list of her own most vicious
faults, to be read over and lamented daily; crying evils such as a
perverse and insubordinate bearing, a heart froward and evil, gluttonous
desires of the flesh, and a spirit of murderous rage. These were her own
ideas of herself, written down at the convent. Had she not behaved
herself perversely to the Sister Paula, with whom one should be always
mild on account of the affliction which had sharpened her tongue? Had
she not wrongfully coveted the cell of the novice Felipa, because it
looked out upon the orange walk? Had she not gluttonously longed for
more of the delectable marmalade made by the aged Sanchita? And, worse
than all, had she no