“See her! yes; but how?—­at each return from a voyage.  I may see her once, with an iron grating between us; she disguised with her black shrouding robe and veil, and thinking that she must suffer here to expiate the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, who, scorpion-like, stung himself to death with the venom of his own bad passions.  She is a Sister of Mercy, devoted to good works, and leaves her convent only in times of war, plague, pestilence or famine, to minister to the suffering.  She nursed me through the yellow fever, when I lay in the hospital at New Orleans, but when I got well enough to recognize her she vanished—­evaporated—­made herself ‘thin air,’ and another Sister served in her place.”

“Have you ever seen her since?”

“Yes, once; I sought out her convent, and went with the fixed determination to reason with her, and to persuade her not to renew her vows for another year—­you know, the Sisters only take vows for a year at a time.”

“Did you make any impression on her mind?” inquired Thurston, with more interest than he had yet shown m any part of the story.

“‘Make any impression on her mind!’ No!  I—­I did not even attempt to.  How could I, when I only saw her behind a grate, with the prioress on one side of her and the portress on the other?  My visit was silent enough, and short enough, and sad enough.  Why can’t she come out of that?  What have I done to deserve to be made miserable?  I don’t deserve it.  I am the most ill-used man in the United States service.”

While Cloudy spoke, old Jenny was hurrying in and out between the house and the kitchen, and busying herself with setting the table, laying the cloth and arranging the service.  But presently she came in, throwing wide the door, and announcing: 

“Two gemmun, axin to see marster.”

Thurston arose and turned to confront them, while Paul became suddenly pale on recognizing two police officers.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen—­good-afternoon, gentlemen,” said the foremost and most respectable-looking of the two, lifting his hat and bowing to the fireside party.  Then replacing it, he said:  “Mr. Willcoxen, will you be kind enough to step this way and give me your attention, sir.”  He walked to the window, and Thurston followed him.

Paul stood with a pale face and firmly compressed lip, and gazed after them.

And Cloudy—­unsuspicious Cloudy, arose and stood with his back to the fire and whistled a sea air.

“Mr. Willcoxen, you can see for yourself the import of this paper,” said the officer, handing the warrant.

Thurston read it and returned it.

“Mr. Willcoxen,” added the policeman, “myself and my comrade came hither on horseback.  Let me suggest to you to order your carriage.  One of us will accompany you in the drive, and all remarks will be avoided.”

“I thank you for the hint, Mr. Jenkins; I had, how ever, intended to do as you advise,” said Thurston, beckoning his brother to approach.