The docile little Sister obeyed; she always did immediately whatever they told her to do. "I want you to listen now; stand still and listen--listen to the sea," said Keith, when they had turned the point and stood alone on the shore. "Try to think only of the pure, deep, blue water, and count how regularly the sound rolls up in long, low chords, dying away and then growing louder, dying away and then growing louder, as regular as your own breath. Do you not hear it?" "Yes," said the little Sister timorously. "Keep time, then, with your hand, and let me see whether you catch the measure." So the small brown hand, nerveless and slender, tried to mark and measure the roar of the great ocean surges, and at last succeeded, urged on by the alternate praises and rebukes of Keith, who watched with some interest a faint color rise in the pale, oval face, and an intent listening look come into the soft, unconscious eyes, as, for the first time, the mind caught the mighty rhythm of the sea. She listened, and listened, standing mute, with head slightly bent and parted lips. "I want you to listen to it that way every day," said Keith, as he led the way back. "It has different voices: sometimes a fresh, joyous song, sometimes a faint, loving whisper; but always something. You will learn in time to love it, and then it will sing to you all day long." "Not at the dear convent; there is no ocean there." "You want to go back to the convent, I suppose?" "Oh, could I go? Could I go?" said the Sister, not impatiently, but with an intense yearning in her low voice. "Here, so lost, so strange am I, so wild is everything---- But I must not murmur"; and she crossed her hands upon her breast and bowed her head. * * * * *