At ten o'clock in the morning the Corpus Christi celebration was to commence, and it struck me that I ought to honor the occasion by a more elaborate toilet than could be made with the plain hospital cloak and hood, which were the same on Sundays as on week days. My valise lay at the foot of my bed. Opening it, I took out my uniform, whose brilliant colors and gilded epaulettes now gave me greater delight than when it first came from the tailor's. Without stopping to consider whether or not I had a right to doff my sick man's livery, I put on the divers articles of the military attire. Ah, me! when I was finally dressed I felt like a different being. The trimming on the trousers and coat, the gold on the collar-band, the sabre clanking against my legs. at every step, reminded me that I was an officer, and wrought such a metamorphosis that I was on the point of pulling off all my finery as too utterly incongruous with my surroundings. However, I reflected that my presence in uniform would lend brightness to the chapel ceremonies, and to palliate my vanity I argued that such a transformation should be regarded simply as a homage to religion.

The rows of benches in the chapel were occupied by the patients. As I entered, most of them looked up, but failed to recognize me; for, in spite of the liberty allowed me, nobody would have imagined that the brilliant young officer and the hospital convalescent were one and the same person.

A wooden railing separated the nave from the choir, and near this railing sat the superintendent and employees of the hospital. Here I took my place, kneeling, on a low chair.

As I raised my head on hearing the organ peal forth and the nuns begin a canticle, I beheld the Sisters, two by two, pass in front of the altar, bearing baskets of flowers; while, at a sign from the Mother Superior, they flung rose petals on the air athwart clouds of incense.

I dared not look steadily up; yet I felt the glance of each passing nun turned on me. Sister Sainte Marie came last; and now, deeming I had shown sufficient humility, I ventured to lift my head. As my eyes encountered those of the nun, her step, I fancied, grew less firm, and her hand trembled in the act of throwing her last bloomy cluster.

The procession traversed the nave and returned along the farther side of the altar, whence it was not visible to me. The incense smoked, the flowery shower continued, and the

sacred songs ascended into the arches of the chapel with a peculiar sweetness never heard elsewhere. It all spoke of the youth and the regular life of the Sisters. Only children's voices could convey an idea of what it was like. I wanted to note Sister Sainte Marie's voice; but the singing of the nuns was so exquisitely perfect, as to time and tune, that it was difficult to distinguish one voice from another.

When the ceremony was over, I walked down the chapel more resolutely than on my arrival, and at a brisk pace wended my way to my pavilion, where I quickly doffed my finery, wherein I did not desire to be seen about the hospital.

Then, for the first and only time, I read a few pages of Swedenborg, feeling, because of the flowers and incense and chapel service, in a mood to enjoy the mystic writings of the Swede; not that I understood him very clearly; but I dreamed rather than read, with the book lying on my knees. As though in a trance, I felt half out of the body, until the attendant fetched me my dinner, which rudely broke the spell and brought me back to reality. Still, I continued to behold Sister Sainte Marie as if in a vision, and I wished that she could be the same as before the trouble concerning the books.

For a long while I remained thus; nor did I experience surprise when two knocks at my door heralded the nun; for, meseemed, a telepathic influence had mysteriously compelled her coming.

She appeared to have forgotten all our little difficulty, and was as affable as at first.

"So you are well, now, Monsieur Valentin," she remarked. "Yes, I am cured," answered I, with a shade of melancholy in my tone.

"Will you sometimes recall your sojourn here?"

"Yes," said I, unable to proceed because of my emotion. The nun crossed her hands upon her bosom. I would have given ten years of my life to have had the power to clasp them and make her comprehend what my voice was incapable of uttering!

The day was declining, and the shadows crept about us dim and saddening.

"Adieu, Monsieur Valentin," murmured the Sister, and then departed, leaving me speechless and motionless in the twilight.

193734R

T was common knowledge that Smugg was engaged to be married. Familiarity had robbed the fact of some of its surprisingness, but there remained a substratum of wonder, not removed even by the sight of his betrothed's photograph and the information that she was a distant relative who had been brought up with him from infancy. The features and the explanation between them rescued Smugg from the incongruity of a romance, but we united in the opinion that the lady was ill-advised in preferring Smugg to solitude. Still, for all that he was a ridiculous creature, she did, and hence it happened that Smugg, desiring to form a furnishing fund, organized a reading-party, which Gayford, Tritton, Bird, and I at once joined.

Every morning at nine, Smugg, his breakfast finished, cleared his corner of the table, opened his books, and assumed an expectant air; so Mary the maid told us; we were never there ourselves; we breakfasted at 9.30 or 10 o'clock, and only about II did we clear our corners, light our pipes, open our books, and discuss the prospects of the day. As we discussed them, Smugg construed in a gentle bleat; what he construed or why he construed it (seeing that nobody heeded him) was a mystery; the whole performance was simply a tribute to Smugg's conscience, and, as such, was received with good-natured, scornful toleration.

Suddenly a change came. One morning there was no Smugg! Yet he had breakfasted--Mary and an egg-shell testified to that effect. He reappeared at 11.30, confused *From "Cassell's Family Magazine."

and very warm (he had exceptional powers in the way of being warm). We said nothing, and he began to bleat Horace. In a minute of silence I happened to hear what it was: it referred to a lady of the name of Pyrrha; the learned may identify the passage for themselves. The next day the same thing happened, except that it was close on twelve before Smugg appeared. Gayford and Tritton took no notice of the aberration; Bird congratulated Smugg on the increased docility of his conscience. I watched him closely as he wiped his brow-he was very warm, indeed. A third time the scene was enacted; my curiosity was aroused; I made Mary call me very early, and from my window. I espied Smugg leaving the house at 9.15, and going with rapid, furtive steps along the little path that led to old Dill's tiny farm. I slipped down stairs, bolted a cup of tea, seized a piece of toast, and followed Smugg. He was out of sight, but presently I met Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, who brought us our chops. Joe was a stout young man, about twenty-one, red-faced, burly, and greasy. We used to have many jokes with Joe; even Smugg had before now broken a mild shaft of classical wit on him; in fact, we made a butt of Joe, and his good-humored, muttony smile told us that he thought it a compliment.

"Seen Mr. Smugg as you came along, Joe?" I asked. "Yes, sir. Gone toward Dill's farm, sir."

"Ah, Dill's farm!"

"Yes, sir."

The chop-laden Joe passed on. I mended my pace, and soon found myself on the outskirts of Dill's premises. I had been there before; we had all been there before. Dill had a daughter. I saw her now in a sun-bonnet and lace boots. I may say at once that Betsy Dill was very pretty, in a fine, robust style, and all four of us were decidedly enamoured of her charms. Usually we courted her in a body, and scrupulous fairness was observed in the matter of seeking private interviews.

Smugg had never spoken to her-so we should all have sworn. But now my wondering eyes saw, opposite Pyrrha (we began from this day to call her Pyrrha) the figure of Smugg. Pyrrha was leaning against a barn, one foot crossed over the other, her arms akimbo, a string of her bonnet in her mouth, and her blue eyes laughing from under

long lashes. Smugg stood limply opposite her, his trousers bagging over his half-bent knees, his hat in one hand, and in the other a handkerchief, with which, from time to time, he mopped his forehead. I could not hear (of course I did not wish to) what they were saying; indeed, I have my doubts if they said anything; but presently Smugg moved a hesitating step nearer, when Pyrrha, with a merry laugh, darted by him and ran away, turning a mocking face over

her shoulder. Smugg stood still for a minute, then put on his hat, looked at his watch, and walked slowly away.

I did not keep Smugg's secret; I felt under no obligation to keep it. He deserved no mercy, and I exposed him at breakfast that very morning. But I could not help being a little sorry for him when he came in. He bent his head under the shower of reproach, chaff, and gibing; he did not try to excuse himself; he simply opened his book at the old