good-naturedly out on the world, and her ample curves bore witness to her naturally placid temperament—relieved, however, by a surface fussiness. She at once took Ragna to her arms and heart with such pattings and caressings as made the girl feel quite uncomfortable, unused as she was to such a demonstrative show of affection.

Astrid, the daughter, fair and pretty, sprightly and capricious of character, also welcomed the newcomer with enthusiasm.

"How delightful it will be!" she carolled. "We shall be just like sisters, and tell one another all our secrets—shan't we, dear?" She linked her arm in Ragna's, and gazed soulfully into her face. Ragna could not help wondering what secrets she might ever find it possible to confide to such a little linnet. At first awkward and constrained, she soon thawed, however, in the friendly atmosphere, and in a few minutes was chattering away with a gaiety and freedom, quite surprising to her father, who had always known her timidly reserved. This was not to be wondered at, as he had never encouraged any other attitude in his children.

As this is not to be a chronicle of a young lady's school-days, little need be told concerning the journey to Paris, and the years at the Sacré Cœur, suffice it to say that Ragna, under the care of the good Sisters, improved both in mind and body. As her skin lost its coating of sunburn and tan, and her body its abrupt and boyish movements, so her mind, trained in the study of the French classics, took on polish, and she acquired a nice discrimination of taste, and a distinction of manner rarely met with in so young a girl. So much for externals, at heart she was the same old Ragna, impulsive, dreamy, and of a childlike credulity, splendidly loyal to those she loved. One instance of this will suffice.

Astrid, in whom vanity and the indulgence of her mother had developed a thirst for admiration and romance, soon found the monotonous round of convent life unbearably dull. She confided the yearnings of her lonely heart to her bosom friend Ragna, and for a time these confidences, the daily bulletins as to the state of her soul scribbled in pencil on scraps of paper, and passed from one to the other as the girls met going to and from chapel, or in recreation hours, sufficed.

Shortly after their arrival, they had been sent to separate dormitories and tables, and kept apart during recreation, the Convent discipline not permitting of too close an intimacy between two young girls, and there being the added reason of the more rapid progress made in acquiring the language when neither had the occasion to use her mother tongue.

Astrid considered it suitable to the arid state of her heart that she should pine away, and to that end consumed bits of chalk from the class-room blackboard, scrapings of slate pencils, and all the vinegar within reach at meals. As may be imagined, she soon displayed an interesting pallor, and was accordingly dosed with iron pills and quince wine. Her heavy sighs and melancholy demeanour so impressed her fellow pupils, that it was generally rumoured she was dying of a broken heart. The broken heart soon mended, however, when early in the second year at the convent, her discerning eye perceived the burning glances of a most romantic looking youth. "Long hair, my dear, velveteen clothes, and the most beautiful soulful eyes you ever saw," she told Ragna.

The girls were on their way, with a group of selected pupils under the guardianship of an assistant mistress, to see a picture gallery. The young man turned in behind the procession and followed. The next time it was the same, and Astrid's romantic little soul thrilled at the thought of so devoted an admirer. It was easy for the man to slip a folded note into the girl's hand one day, as the little group straggled up the stairway of the Louvre, and during the rest of the afternoon Astrid's hand strayed constantly to her pocket to assure herself of the safety of the precious paper. With eyelids lowered over shining eyes, she listened to the droning explanations of the teacher, longing to be alone, to be free to read the note.

This was the beginning of a correspondence, for Astrid answered the letter and an obliging day-scholar posted the little envelope addressed to M. Jules Gauthiez. So the two exchanged perfervid epistles, and wrote such impassioned, if confused, outpourings, that Astrid's little soul was consumed within her. The secret feeling of importance it gave her betrayed itself in the brightness of her eyes and in the self-consciousness of her voice and manner. The regimen of chalk and vinegar fell into abeyance.

Ragna, at first amused, began to be alarmed at the situation; Astrid keyed to the highest pitch of romantic sentimentality, was capable of any folly, and the immediate consequences of discovery, public reprimand and expulsion from the school, spelled unthinkable disaster to her more serious mind. She begged Astrid to give the whole thing up, but the girl would listen to no argument that her friend could put forward. "My love is my life, can you ask me to tear my heart out?" she demanded.

The most Ragna could obtain, was that Astrid should be more prudent—which meant exactly nothing.

Naturally, the Sisters could not long remain unobservant of the change in Astrid's demeanour, and from awakened attention to discovery there lay but a step.

Ragna was making a water colour drawing in the assembly room, when a Sister brought her the order to go at once to the Reverend Mother. She put by her brushes with trembling hands, and the black-robed Sister observed her emotion curiously, but kindly.

"There, there, my child!" she said, "Reverend Mother will do you no harm; she wishes to ask you a question, nothing more. If your conscience is good, what do you fear?"

Ragna followed her without answering, her mind intent on the pending interview.

The Superior's sitting-room was a comfortable apartment; a table stood in the middle, and at one window a large writing desk. One of the walls was occupied by a bookcase, another by a large carved prie-dieu over which hung an ivory crucifix and a silver holy-water stoup with its twig of box.

Mother Marie Sacré Cœur, sat in a large carved armchair by the table. She was a tall, slender woman, and her face, though unlined and delicate as a piece of carved ivory, bore the imprint of long years of responsibility, and conveyed the impression of a wonderful degree of will power. It was not altogether an ascetic face, however, the grey eyes, though keen, were human, and the strong firmly modelled mouth had a humorous twist. The hands, long, slender and white with rather thick thumbs, were lightly clasped over a Book of Hours bound in velvet and silver.

By her side stood the Mère in charge of Astrid's dormitory, Mère Perpétua, a severe, sour-looking woman, yellow under her white guimpe and black veil. Astrid cowered beside her, looking like a prisoner in the grasp of a gendarme; she had been crying, but her eyes had a furtive expression and her weak, pretty mouth was set in obstinate lines. She looked like a trapped animal, badly frightened, but feebly at bay. On the table lay a little pile of crumpled papers, and the ribbon that had bound them.

They all looked eagerly at Ragna as she entered, followed by Sœur Angélique; she glanced at them each in turn, and from Astrid's eyes caught such an agonized appeal for help that her back straightened, and it was with a calm, almost defiant consciousness of definite purpose that she met the Superior's interrogating gaze.

"Ragna," said the Reverend Mother, "we have called you here to ascertain how much you know of this disgraceful affair. Mère Perpétua has found these letters," she indicated the little heap on the table, "hidden in Astrid's mattress. I have read them, they are letters such as no young girl should receive from any man, even her fiancé. Our Rule has been broken by this clandestine correspondence, and our sense of propriety outraged; we are profoundly shocked and