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one so often sees under the linen cap, came on board, and sat down near them.

The Sister had a bright cheery face. Her simple dignity of mien and utter unconsciousness of “what is worn now” formed a pleasant contrast to the over-dressed tourist lady. Lizzie felt drawn to her and shyly began a conversation, not knowing whether the rules of this religious order would permit any intercourse with strangers. The Sister responded, and they were soon talking together, more like old friends than passing strangers. No one—not even a tourist—could maintain a proper conventional reserve in the midst of these mountain solitudes. The wooded cliffs slipped past, the afternoon grew more golden and more silent every moment. The good Sister produced a basket of small sun-burnt grapes, and handed them round as gracefully as if she were still doing the honours of her Paris salon. There was a charming air of worldly polish still showing in her well-bred French voice and genial manner.

She spoke of her life and the mission work, its hardships and adventures, the joy and happiness she had found in her self-renunciation; and Lizzie listened and looked with all her beautiful childish eyes on the speaker. Presently Sister Agnes glanced at the wedding-ring on the girl’s