ed her. Her face
had lighted so with joy and glad anticipation that they hardly knew her.
"I wish you could to the convent go with me," she said earnestly to the
two young men. "I am sure you would like it." Then, as the boat turned
the point, "I am sure you would like it," she called back, crossing her
hands on her breast. "It is very heavenly there--very heavenly."

That was the last they saw of her.

Carrington sent down the next winter from New York a large silver
crucifix, superbly embossed and ornamented. It was placed on the high
altar of the convent, and much admired and reverenced by all the nuns.
Sister St. Luke admired it too. She spoke of the island occasionally,
but she did not tell the story of the rescue. She never thought of it.
Therefore, in the matter of the crucifix, the belief was that a special
grace had touched the young man's heart. And prayers were ordered for
him. Sister St. Luke tended her doves, and at the hour of meditation
paced to and fro between the lime-tree and the bush of white roses. When
she was thirty years old her cup was full, for then she was permitted to
take lessons and play a little upon the old organ.

Melvyna went every Sunday to the bare, struggling little Presbyterian
mission over in the town, and she remains to this day a Sawyer.

But Keith remembered. He bares his head silently in reverence to all
womanhood, and curbs his cynicism as best he can, for the sake of the
little Sister--the sweet little Sister St. Luke.

MISS ELISABETHA.

In yonder homestead, wreathed with bounteous vines,
A lonely woman dwells, whose wandering feet
Pause oft amid one chamber's calm retreat,
Where an old mirror from its quaint frame shines.
And here, soft wrought in memory's vague designs,
Dim semblances her wistful gaze will greet
Of lost ones that inthrall phantasmally sweet
The mirror's luminous quietude enshrines.

But unto her these dubious forms that pass
With shadowy majesty or dreamy grace,
Wear nothing of ghostliness in mien or guise.
The only ghost that haunts this glimmering glass
Carries the sad reality in its face
Of her own haggard cheeks and desolate eyes!

EDGAR FAWCETT.

Overlooking the tide-water river stands an old house, gleaming white in
the soft moonlight; the fragrance of tropic flowers floats out to sea on
the land-breeze, coming at sunset over the pine-barrens to take the
place of the ocea