Two years and a half had almost gone by since she inserted the advertisement, to which this was evidently a reply.  Long ago she had ceased to expect any tidings through this channel; but the seed sown in faith, watered by tears, and guarded by continual prayer had stirred to life; blossomed in the sunshine of God’s pitying smile, and after weary waiting, the ripe fruit fell at her feet.  How fair and smooth, rosy and fragrant it appeared to her famishing heart?  How opportune the guiding hand that pointed her way, when cross roads baffled her.  Two days later, she would have been journeying away from the coveted goal.  Now the tide of battle was turning.  Had the stars rolled back on their courses to rescue Sisera?

How long the happy woman sat there, exulting in the mellowness of the perfect fruit of patience, she never knew.

Day died slowly; the vivid crimson and dazzling gold that fired the West were reflected in the tranquil bosom of the lake, faded into the tender pale rose of the sacred lotus, into the exquisite tints that gild the outer petals of a daffodil, the heart of buttercups; and then, robed in faintest violet powdered with silvery dust, the vast pinions of Crepuscule spread over sky and water, fanning into full flame the glittering sparks of planets and constellations that lighted the chariot course of the coming moon.

Across the sleeping lake hurried a north wind, on its long journey to blow open the snowy camellias folded close in the heart of the South, and under his winged sandals the waters crimped, rippled, swelled into wavelets that played their minor adagio in nature’s nocturn, as their foam fingers fell on the pebbles that fringed the beach.  From the deck of a schooner anchored off shore, floated the deep voice of a man singing Schubert’s “Ave Maria”; and far, far away over the weird waste of waters, where a buoy marked a sunken wreck, its red beacon burned like the eye of Polyphemus, crouching in darkness, watching to surprise Galatea.

The penetrating chill of the night air aroused Beryl from her profound trance; and lighting the gas over her dressing table, she re-read the magical words that had transformed her narrow world.  This was Monday the 26th, and next Saturday was the limit of the proposed interview.  One day must suffice for necessary preparation, and starting by early morning express on Wednesday, she would arrive in time to keep the tryst that involved so much.  She cut out the notice that was merely a sentence in the page of social hieroglyphics, where no key fitted more than one paragraph, and forgetting the criticism on her picture, she went swiftly down stairs.

The members of the Sisterhood were at supper, and she waited at the refectory door for an opportunity to meet the matron.

On the platform raised in the centre of the long room, sat the reader for the day, Sister Agatha; a plump, florid young woman, with bright black eyes, and a voice sweet and strong as the flute stop of an organ.  The selection that evening had been from “Agate Windows” and “Ice Morsels”, and the closing words were: