that ere
an hour goes by you shall be in a fair way to look upon the face of one
who loves you more dearly than if you had never been lost to her."

John hears and believes; he is not suspicious enough to put a double
meaning upon the words.

"An hour--so soon? What am I to do in order to gain this consummation of
my hopes?" he asks, in deep surprise.

"Nothing, only be content to remain here as my guests."

John looks at Philander and the latter nods, for it all seems clear and
above board.

"We agree, madame," says the young doctor.

The Mother Superior, as they take her to be, bows her head solemnly.

"It is well," she says, and touches a bell.

Almost immediately the native servant appears, to whom she speaks in low
tones, while John wonders when so great a revolution in the affairs of
orders like this occurred whereby they are enabled to have men-servants.

Hardly has the native vanished than another sister appears, carrying a
small tray upon which are seen a crystal bottle full of grape juice,
three odd glasses and a plate of plain flat cakes.

"Doctor Craig, our order refuses the use of wines; this is the pure
juice of the grape, expressed at our own vineyard on this island. It is
as harmless as water, but refreshing. It is our simple habit to invite
our guests to join us in this way; we believe in the Arab rule of
breaking bread; those with whom we take salt are ever more our friends.
You will not, cannot refuse."

How should they?

John looks at the professor, and in turn the latter looks at John.

"Madame, you have given me cause for happiness; we will join you in your
simple lunch," returns the young man.

"You are wounded," noticing his arm in its sling.

"Not seriously."

"By chance I saw your adventure this day. I am proud to have the hero of
that noble deed for my guest."

"Pardon; please do not mention it."

He accepts a glass of the grape juice and an anise-seed cake, for this
plant is grown in Malta for export.

The liquid is cold and very refreshing. John has a dozen questions on
the tip of his tongue, all of which relate to Sister Magdalen, but he
does not put them, for his thoughts become somewhat incoherent, and it
is so comfortable sitting there.

When the Mother Superior raises her vail to sip from the amber glass of
unfermented wine John Craig, M.D., has sense enough to notice two
things; the hand that holds the glass is plump and fair, and the lips
under the vail form