wrong one) {100} that it meant “true,” but mostly rough copies of a poem about the Saints Julitta and her child Cyriac. Hope sank as another stormy day rose; and still the poor old artist lingered in hopes of news by some returning craft which might have picked up the derelict. His chief comfort was in walking about between the showers with Magdalen, as an old friend, and trying to think of the two as innocent creatures, engulfed like mayflies in the stream. Sister Mena came over, wanting to join Paula in bewailing entreaties; but Paula, in youthful hard-hearted wilfulness, declared that it was impossible to see her; and it fell to Magdalen to try to discuss the grief with her. It turned out that Mr. Flight had spoken severely to her and to the far less implicated Sister Beata, declaring his confidence in them destroyed, so that they had begun to consider of throwing up their work in his parish. “And it was all my fault,” said Mena; “Sister Beata really knew nothing, or hardly anything of what Vera told me.” “Indeed, I can quite understand that you had hardly experience enough to know that it might be wiser not to encourage what was not quite open.” “But I thought,—I thought you—” “That I was unkind and unsympathising.” “Oh, you never could have been—” “Indeed I never meant to be, but I am afraid it seemed so to my young sisters. I can quite see how you thought you were acting kindly.” “Oh, that is so good of you.” “And perhaps I, being only an elder sister, you would not feel that I was the only authority the poor girls have to look to; and that it would have been kinder to help them to be content with me.” “I did not know what you could be,” said Mena, greatly soothed and surprised by her caresses. “We often do go on in ignorance, and get on a wrong tack; but you know God pardons our mistakes, and I do believe that you will be wiser for all this sorrow, and better able to rise to your work. I am sure, however it ends, that is the reason that such blows are sent to us.” Mena went back sorrowful and chastened, but tenderly hopeful. If Miss Prescott could forgive, surely Mr. Flight could, and One still greater. CHAPTER XI—ADRIFT “She splashed, and she dashed, and she turned herself round, And heartily wished herself safe on the ground.” JANE TAYLOR. AND where were the missing pair? Vera had lingered about, fancying she was helping to pack the photographic apparatus, while the others dispersed. Presently, seeing no one near, Hubert Delrio said, in a gentle diffident voice, “It would be a great pleasure to me if I might ask you to listen to the verses on St. Cyriac and his mother that the design brought with it.” “I should love it better than anything,” said Vera, highly flattered. “If you would come down this way, there is a charming secluded cove, where we should be free from interruption.”