"I will become a Sister," she used to think, as if for such a life no qualification were wanted but the having lost heart and interest in everything else!--while a not unpleasing vision of herself in trailing and sombre garments, pale face, and unearthly eyes, carrying solace and sympathy by her very presence to the "haunts of wretchedness" of which she knew naught but the name, or lost in devotion through long hours of midnight vigil in some dimly-lighted chapel, rose before her eyes--all, as Mrs Hume's rough common-sense had already in its way perceived, centring round "self." For of the real meaning of religion, apart from sentiment and self-seeking, it is to be feared that the poor child as yet knew not even the alphabet. It was in this mood that she was pacing the sands one mild morning, tempted out by the soft sunshine and unusual stillness of the air, unusual at that season, even at the seaside winter resort where for the time they were staying. She had come out alone, for the discussion as to their future plans had begun again at breakfast, ending in a nearer approach to positive disagreement than had yet come to pass. For Mrs Wentworth's eyes were opening, and she was growing more rationally anxious about Imogen every day. "I can't think what has made mamma take up that craze about London," she thought. "I should detest it; at least,"--for, after all, London was an unknown quantity to Imogen, and at twenty there is charm in that very fact--"I am sure _I_ should, though I daresay other girls would like it. But--" At that moment she became aware that she had all but run against a Bath chair, drawn up in a sheltered position below the rough cliff-like bank. "I--I beg your pardon," she said hastily, fearing lest she had jarred the chair and its invalid occupant. "It does not matter the least," a sweet, bright, though feeble voice replied; and looking up, Imogen saw, half lying, half sitting, a girl-- quite a young girl she seemed at first sight--whose exquisite complexion and brilliantly beautiful eyes told their own sad tale, even without the cough which quickly followed her few quick words. "I am so sorry," Imogen could not avoid saying, imagining that she had agitated the young lady. "Oh no!" the stranger went on, when, after a moment or two, she had recovered her breath and voice, "it was not you at all. I made myself cough by trying to reach my book, which had fallen down. If you would be so kind--oh! thank you _so_ much," as Imogen eagerly started forward to pick it up. "It is my own fault, for I sent my maid home, and I never care to keep the chairman standing about. I love to be alone when I am pretty well, as I am this morning." Imogen gazed at her with eyes full of wondering pity. How could she be so cheerful? She had heard that consumptive patients never realise their state: it must be so in this case. "I must not disturb you," she said gently.