depths of the terrific flood as though to meet destruction, she would rise again gracefully, even without much jarring.

Then came the final hurricane of December 7th. The waves rose like mountains, and the wind blew eighty miles an hour. When whitecaps formed, they were churned by the wind into vapor. The ocean was the play-field of an awful blizzard. The atmosphere for hundreds of feet was dense with sea-foam lashed into space by the wind. The water seemed streaked and varicolored for a space, then everything turned pink.

For an hour and a half the vessel was steered into the hurricane. All the while she was at a standstill, though her engines labored vigorously. But it was when she began to drift that great danger was imminent. At the first favorable moment she swung about and drifted with the storm. Putting about was the crucial test of seamanship, also of the seaworthiness of the vessel.

A monster wave struck her broadside, towered above the hurricane deck, smashed in the plate glass and framework over the music room, dining room and first cabin. The torrent dashed from side to side, tearing carpets, hurling furniture about for an hour or two. The faithful Chinese crew laid their hands upon everything that would hold water, and in a few hours the cabin was bailed out and the tables set for supper. When morning dawned on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, the mighty Pacific was once again true to its name.

Among the passengers was Mr. Nealy, a noted American architect, who was on his way to Pekin to plan and erect buildings for the United States legation om the site of those destroyed during the Boxer uprising.

Since this letter was written, Father William has joined his brother, the first two from the United States to volunteer for the saving of souls in far-off China.

T

I.

HE wardrobe of Saint Teresa's Academy was a large sunlit a large sunlit room, dazzling in its whiteness. The pine presses were full of snowy linen and a plaster blank-eyed statue of the ascetic saint was the only attempt at decoration of the high walls, which were whitewashed with religious regularity every spring. The floor was bare and unvarnished, and if, by chance, a spot of mud was tracked by hurrying feet from the garden, a zealous, aproned sister appeared with bucket and broom and wiped it out of remembrance.

But this afternoon the tranquil order of the wardrobe was disturbed. Two trunks stood open near the long centertable, variegated dresses lay heaped upon the floor, and two girls, down on their knees, chattered gaily as they packed their belongings into the bulging trays. A white-veiled nun at the other end of the room sorted out stockings and lingerie from the numbered compartments of one of the presses and added them to the clothes already on the floor. On one of these pilgrimages she was stopped by the older girl, who laid a detaining hand upon her flowing sleeve.

"Now, Sister Celestine," she said teasingly, "I wonder why you gave me the number thirteen. Don't you know it's very unlucky? And here it is on all my handkerchiefs."

"Shure, that thirteen," said the little Irish nun, "is a black superstition. You've been an angel of light to us all."

"And a heathen, too," laughed the other girl, looking up. She was much younger than her companion, and her

present unusual exercise had flushed her plain little face into something like real beauty. "In three whole years, Sister Celestine, you haven't managed to convert Marian Penworth."

"In God's good time," said the little nun. "You can't hurry the Almighty, Corinne."

"I think that's heresy," said Corinne, her small gray eyes twinkling. "I feel that I've hastened matters a bit. Here's my dear father coming home six months. earlier than I thought possible, and so I'm going to make my debut and have a whole season instead of staying here until June, and here's Marian-why, dear Sister Celestine, Marian is just like the fairy princess in a story-book. Did you know that her father had found a gold mine, and that he had been elected to the Senate, and that he is coming here to Washington to live, and Marian is going to keep house for him and have. everything she wants forever and ever— amen ?"

"God be thanked," said the little nun, spilling an armload of towels in her surprise. "Shure I've been troubled about you, Marian dear. Your face has worn an older look than your years, and teachin' music is tiresome business for one so young and sometimes you looked that worried-"

"I don't suppose I was ever cheerful," said Marian, sitting down wearily upon the floor. "I'm like a cloudy day, dark and dismal."

"Poor lamb!" said Sister Celestine, "poor motherless lamb!"

"And you've all been so good to me," Marian went on, "that I don't like to leave, even to be a fairy princess. I've

been teaching here for only three years, and sometimes I feel that I would like to stay forever."

"A budding vocation," laughed Corinne. "Dear me! You would make a beautiful nun! You'll be married before the year is out."

"No, don't say that," the tone held real entreaty. "Don't say that, Corinne."

"And why not? One would fancy I was broaching the subject to Sister Celestine, who no doubt never thought of such a thing."

"Never, God be praised," said the little nun emphatically, "I've recommended all good men to the Lord's mercy, and shure they need it, even the best of them."

"It is

Marian laughed mirthlessly. the only safe way," she said “and I suppose the happiest."

"Dear me!" said Corinne, "am I to be persuaded to be a man-hater before I make my debut? I think men can be very entertaining and-useful."

"I suppose so," said Sister Celestine, doubtfully, "the Lord made them."

"I know only two or three," continued Corinne, "and they are all good. There's my father, who is a dear old. saint, and there's my father's friend, Mr. Wade, who is in Congress this yeareven the newspapers say he's too idealistic to be a politician-and, then, there's my cousin, John Caworth-"

Marian started at the name. "Whowho is he?" she asked.

"A distant cousin; a newspaper

man-"

"And his name?"

"John Caworth. Do you know him?" "No" Marian's hesitation was only momentary, "I've heard-the name before." she said.

"People say he's very brilliant," Corinne went on, "he writes-writes all sorts of things. He's old, too-I suppose he must be thirty-five."

Marian smiled, and putting her arm affectionately around Corinne's slender

waist, she said: "Is one antiquated at thirty-five? I'm nearly thirty myself."

"Oh, are you really? Then it can't be old. You see, Cousin Caworth never seemed young to me; he was so big when I was so little. Sometimes I think he is in love with my Aunt Annette."

"The Lord be merciful!" exclaimed Sister Celestine. "Why, Corinne, your aunt must be fifty if she is a day. I remember when she first came here to school when I was in the novitiate, and that was forty years ago. She couldn't speak a word of English, for she came. straight from Paris. Her father-your grandfather, Corinne was minister or ambassador or something, and your aunt was but a child."

"I know," said Corinne reflectively, "but people don't get old nowadays, Sister Celestine. Getting old has gone out of fashion. Oh, you should see aunt's new Paris gowns! She is very gay-father says she's frivolous. Sometimes," she added, with schoolgirl candor, "I think father is not so happy since aunt came to live with us."

"Then why don't she leave?" said Sister Celestine, who always reasoned in direct lines.

Corinne meditated a moment. "I suppose she has no other place to go. You see she is my father's only sister, and when her husband, Monsieur Condé, died she came to us."

These family revelations were interrupted by the rosy-cheeked portress, who appeared in the doorway to say that Corinne's cousin, Mr. Caworth, and another gentleman had called to take her home.

"And my trunk not packed!" said Corinne, jumping up excitedly. "I'll not wait another minute-I can't wait. Come up and see me off, Marian. Give me my hat, dear Sister Celestine. I love you all dearly, but I want to breathe the air outside. Come on, Marian-I'll

is given a wider liberty, Tom Penworth could not and did not want to understand his wife's Puritanic principles. He was sociable, pleasure-seeking, not over scrupulous in his business methods, while she was serious, retiring, and incapable of outliving the code of her forefathers. Her husband's friends were incomprehensible to her and when, after a few months of fitful happiness, she arose from her adoring attitude to a point of clearer wifely knowledge, he noted, with blind dismay, the change in her. He grew restless at home and began to find his pleasures elsewhere.

Perhaps, in those first days, he did not quite realize the cruelty of his neglect, for when she died, after two years, leaving him with an infant daughter, he mourned for her with an emotional vehemence that impressed the villagers with the strength of his passion. The baby, Marian, was sent to live with her mother's relatives in Massachusetts, and she saw her father but seldom. In those days he was too poor to travel without denying himself many comforts, and, then, the thought of revisiting the old scenes of his courtship was distasteful to him. He did not want to remember his brief married years. They had been failures. He did not like to acknowledge his mistakes. All his life he had been regarded as a kind-hearted fellow, generous, fun-loving, brave. Every one was glad to see him, he was universally popular. His wife, her eyes illumined by the light of her love, had searched his soul. She knew that he was generous before he was just, funloving when some one else counted the pain, physically brave to hide a moral weakness. The world would never know so much, for from the world's outlook his career had been most laudable.

From an underpaid drudge in a lawyer's firm, he had worked with unflagging perseverance until he possessed an impressive brass sign of his own. He was undoubtedly clever and there.

was a naive frankness about his manner that inspired confidence, so that when he went into politics he was soon talked about as the most popular man in the State. It was then that wealth was added to the realization of his other ambitious dreams. He had long been interested in mines, and in them he had sunk all his savings. After many patient years he struck it "rich." His enemies said that it was this fact that enabled him to buy his seat in the Senate.

In the midst of his good fortune, he wrote to his daughter Marian to come to him to preside over his house in Washington. During the days of his poverty he had hesitated about introducing her into his life. She was a foreign element, unmergeable in his general scheme of things. While Marian remained with his wife's relatives he had contributed to her support, at first with a sort of fitful faithfulness and afterwards at rare intervals. He heard from her but seldom. She wrote to him on her eighteenth birthday telling him that she was going to Germany with her grandfather to complete her musical education. When she wrote again she announced that she was to be married in a few weeks to a young Mr. Hollins who held a position of trust in a large banking firm in Berlin. When the notices of her marriage reached him, he sent her a small check as a wedding gift and earnestly wished her much happiness. He sealed the letter with a feeling of positive relief. He need give no further thought to her. Heretofore she had hampered his growing self-esteem. Six months later, he received a marked. newspaper containing full accounts of a remarkable embezzlement. Young James Hollins, his daughter's husband, had been speculating with the funds of his firm. He had been tried, found guilty and imprisoned. The news, at this particular time, had little effect upon Tom Penworth; he felt in no way