"Unchastity covers a multitude of virtues," remarked Egerton Scott. He was called Tommie because he had ouce had a friend named Jerry.

"That's all very fine, but you'll find that it takes more than a multitude of epigrams to cover unchastity ", said John Drummond.

"Yes," added young Evans. What a life-long repentance, and any amount of Christian charity can't accomplish, shouldn't be expected of a feeble epigram--one of Tommie Scott's epigrams too! " he exclaimed, with the true scorn of the home-made prophet.

"0h, I don't know," said Scott, lazily, "it's a poor saw that doesn't work both ways. . ."

"But this particular saw doesn't cut any ice. . ."

"Oh, I say, Evans", broke in Reggie Madison. "You chaps are a bit too gymnastic. From unchastity to ice, via epigrams and saws! I object! You're slangy besides, and that's vulgar. But worse than that, you are unnatural. Unchastity and ice, in the same breath ! You might as well talk of a Burgundy frappe," finished Keggie, - conclusively, with the air of one Who has named the last impossibility in nature.

"But what is it all about, anyway?" asked John Druinniond, who had just joined the group in time to catch Scott's remark.

"We were talking about little Elsie Everett," explained Scott.

"Ah, that little red-headed flame of Macdonald's. Well, what of her?"

"Shades of Titian ! " gasped Reggie. "Red-headed! That cable of burnished cop. per those threads of sputi. . ."

"Spare us, Reggie," broke in young Evans. "If it isn't shades of Titian, it's a Titian shade. Anyway, her hair has nothing to do with the lady's character, which we were discussing."

"Indeed? I should have thought her character was beyond discussion," remarked Drummond.

"Well, that's just what I was contending - that she has a great deal more character, and of a better kind than many - or, indeed, most people." said Scott. "Of course, we all know that Elsie isn't. . .well, exactly in society, but as I was just saying, that for sweetness, charity, and loyal honesty. . ."

"In short,'' said Drummond, "if she'd been a man, she'd have been a perfect gentleman - but having the misfortune to be a woman, with her peculiar morals, she is . . ."

"Not. . .in society", finished Reggie.

Exactly," said Scott, "but, as I was sayilig, I've never met her equal, and I've kuown a lot of women, of all sorts.''

"So we’ave been led to understand," said Evans. " Well, whatever her character, it's a beastly shame that she should be all smashed up like this."

"Like what?" questioned Drummond. "I've been out to tea with my wife this afternoon, and haven't been down town till now, so I don't know anything about anything."

"What a curious effect tea seems to have upon you, sort of an anaesthesia! Now, it takes something a great deal stronger. . ."

"Oh, shut up, Reggie, and give these fellows a chance to tell me about it. What was it? An accident, or has Macdonald suddenly cast himself for the role of Othello?" asked Drummond.

"It was an accident," explained Scott. "She was out Bubbling WelI driving and a runaway brougham smashed into her victoria, and chucked her out. Somebody picked her up, and drove her to the hospital - oh,yes, it was Doc. Booth; he just happened along then, in his go-cart."

"Good old Doc!" said Drummond, approvingly. "Is she much hurt?"

"That's just it. She is awfully hurt. Probably dead, by now." answered Scott.

"Whew!" whistled Drummond. "That being the case, what price our distinguished fnend, Richard Carlyle Macdonald ? Seriously, isn't he pretty hard hit in that direction?"

"Oh, Dick! You ever can tell about him. He always has two or three women on a string. Remember how he rushed Mrs. Talbot-Rivett? And at the same time, he was being adored by, and was most conscientiously adoring, Minnie Sylvester, or some such person, in that variety show of sorts, that was here at the time. There is no questior, though, but that poor little Elsie is in earnest about him," said Scott.

"Well, then, what becomes of Miss Wyvert?" asked Reggie. "He must be going to niarry her. Papa aud Mamma Wyvert are not going to stand having the girl made conspicuous for a who1e winter, all for nothing."

"I always had an idea that he would play the giddy ox, and marry Elsie, finally," said Scott.

"Well, he can't marry both of them," said Reggie, instructively. "Not but that he would be delighted. Good old Dick! He wonld marry them all if popular prejudice didn't put him off. And I have my doubts about his marrying Elsie. It takes a deal of courage, you know, for a step like that, cspacially as he hasn't any money but his screw, and brother-in-law would soon curtail that, if he went and did anything desperate. That is the worst of having a relative for a taipan. They're always so beastly tender of one's morals."

"It's plain to see that you never filled any engagement with a relative," jeered Evans.

Reggie put on the expression of a maligned cherub, and ordered a lemon squash, just as a guarantee of respectability.

"I wondered that Elsie never discovered how strong Dick was going with Miss Wyvert," Scott went on. "I shouldn't like to have her jealous of me!"

"She told me once that she was too conceited to be jealous of anyone," remarked Reggie. "But, after all, she didn't know as much about it, probably, as we did. As has been before remarked, Elsie was not in society, and she was a good deal of a stay-at- home, besides. She never went out, much - only for her drive, in the afternoon. She couldn't tell what was going on at dances and teas, and no one was kind enough, or brutal enough, to tell her.

"Besides, it's easy enough to keep two affairs of that sort apart. I think the only one who scores is Dick. It doesn't matter much to him, apparently, which of the two girls he finally annexes permanently. Who is it that says, "Man's love is of his life a thing apart, ‘tis woman's whole existence!" Shakespeare, wasn't it?"

"Oh, Reginald !" said Evans reproachfully. "That is one of the few things that Shakespeare did not say. Byron made that statement, my erudite young friend, and he probably knew!"

Just then the door opened, and a burly man in a mackintosh entered. He was hailed with enthusiasm.

"Hi, Doc! Mr. Doctor! You're just the man we want to see!" cried the men in chorus. "Have you come from the hospital?"

"Yes," answered Dr. Booth. "By Jove, it is raining! Boy, bring me a pony brandy. This sort of thing lays one open to fever."

"Fever!" jeered Reggie. "You couldn't catch fever in a pest house! Anyone who daIlies with the playful cholera-germ, in the laboratory of its nativity, and then goes and drinks Whang-poo water out of the tap without washiug his hands, needn't worry abont getting fever in pure and sparkling rain-water!"

"Well, I don't drink out of my hands, I give you my word! The Municipal Council allows me a tin cup, it does indeed!"

"How's Elsie?" asked Scott.

"Bad," answered Booth.

"What ! won't she live?" two or three asked anxioiisly.

"I don't see how she can," said Booth slowly, "and on the whole, I don't think she'd better. She's pretty well sniashed up. . .all the injuries are in the head, mostly. . .and the face. l'm afraid she would be a fairly dreadful looking object, if she did recover. She's young and strong though, and it is possible that she will pull through," he went on cautiously, "though really, I think it would be a pity if she did."

"Poor little devil!" said Drummond.

" How does Dick take it?"

"I left him at the hospital, raging like a hydrophobic hyena because they wouldn't let him in," said the Doctor.

"Why didn't they let him in ? I should think that, failing a menagerie, a hospital would be just the proper place for him, if your diagnosis is correct," Reggie remarked.

"Oh, well, of couse, he couldn't see her to-night, anyway. There seems to be some absurd rule over there about not permitting anyone but male relatives to visit the female patients." explained Booth.

"I should call Dick a male relative of Elsie, after all," mused Reggie.

"I've no doubt you would, but decent members of society wouldn't be apt to," said Scott, crushingly. " What's become of Dick, Doc?

"Oh, I gave him a morphine pill to take when he gets home. I suppose he's gone to bed by now," Booth answered.

"Yes, he'd hardly come around to the Club, to~night." said Evans. "No, by Jove, there he is, now!"

The door swung open to admit a tall, good-looking young man in riding-kit, who made his way to a table far away from the group at the bar. His eyes were swollen, and his whole aspect showed the signs of a heavy grief. Nobody approached him. They all felt sorry for him, but, tongue-tied Englishmen that they were, could not find words to express their sympathy. Booth shook his head when he saw the number of brandy-sodas that the boy carried to that table, but when, after about an hour, they helped Macdonald, quite incapacitated, into a rickshaw and sent him home in the rain, no one added anything to Reggie's parting."Good-night, old chap! Buck up, and don't lose your grip! Booth says he will have her out of there in no time, and as pretty as ever."

Drumniond gave the signal to break up. "Good-night, you fellows! Night, Reggie, you blooming young liar! That lie ought to take precedence of most of your truths, in the ledger up yonder !" and he stepped into his brougliam, and was rapidly driven off.

The men dispersed to their homes, and in a few days the exposure of a bank swindle drove all thought of the injured girl out of their heads.

Over in the hospital, the days of pain passed in weary procession, but life still clung tenaciously to the shattered frame. A single iron bed, curtained in white, was pulled close to the verandah door of the small, cheerless room. By the head of the bed was a table, with a burning candle and a litter of medicine bottles on it. Crouched on the floor, an old Chinese woman huddled, embracing her knees, and staring patiently into the empty fireplace. A nun sat upright on a leather sofa, reading her "office." Through the open door, came a delicate tropic breeze, whispering among the palms down in the court, and heavy with the scent of magnolias. A great moon silvered the edge of the verandah, and the shadow of a huge palm leaf seemed to lay the tips of giant fingers on the brilliant spot. The mosquito-net shrouding the bed almost concealed the figure within, and Elsie's weak voice sounded with startling suddenness from among the pillows.

"Amah!"

The amah clambered up clumsily on to her bound feet, and answered with joy, "Oh, Missie, you have got more better, now. She turned to the nun, and said in pidgin Euglish, "My Missie just now savee. Head belong ploper."

The nun advanced to the bed, and the big violet eyes looked up at her questioiningly, from among the bandages.

"You have been very ill, my dear, and have been unconscious for some time. You must be careful to be quiet, but do you want anything?" She seemed to speak in great, though suppressed, excitenient.

The eyes kept themselves fastened upon the nun's face in perplexity. Perplexity gave place to groping wonder, and finally recognition flashed into them. "You!" she cried, in a voice, which, though faint, thrilled with a great joy. Tears welled up from the depths of her big eyes, and flowed out of the corners, moistening the bandages on the temples. She cried weakly, without speaking, and the nun fell on her knees by the bedside, reachiug out and embracing the helpless figure, all her self-command gone.

"Oh, Elsie, my little, little, lost sister! You know me, you know me! How afraid I have been that you would. . .that you might never know me! Oh, my poor baby sister! I have found you at last, at last! It is in answer to my ceaseless prayers,.and how I shall thank the Blessed Virgin for this kindness!"

Elsie was continuing to cry feebly, trying to hold Sister Mary's hand in her weak grasp. Finally she whispered: "It cannot be true, that it is really you!:Oh, I am so happy, but. . .- - Gertrude, I have been so bad, you will not be glad you have found me when you know all about it.

"Darling, I know everything! Be quiet, now. You have nothing to make you unhappy now. You are going to get well and then you are never to leave me again. We shall be two unworthy servants of God, and will forget all the past. The future will be so beautiful that we shall have the time to think of things that have been."

"Ah, I forget, there is Dick," whispered Elsie weakly. "I could not leave him. We could not bear to be separated . We have never been apart since I first knew him. He could not give me up, any more than I could live without him! Have you seen him?"

"No, dear, he has not been. . .you have been too ill for visitors, but there are letters here. I will give them to you, but you must not try to read them now."

She took a small package of letters from the table drawer and untying the string that kept them together, dropped them into Elsie's hands. The sick girl tried to raise them to her lips, but her hands trenib!ed so that she could not hold them. "So many?" she said feebly. "How long have I been ill? Every day, a letter, he always sent me one every day. How many are there, Gertrude?"

Eight, darling," said Sister Mary, thrilling at the sound of the old familiar name.

"I have been ill eight days, and he wrote every day of the wcek." She smiled, happily.

"Yes, he wrote every one of the eight days," said Sister Mary, praying in her heart to be forgiven for keeping back the fact that there were five times eight days that he had not written.

"He will be glad when I get well," Elsie murmured. " And you will be glad, too, Gertrtide, because we have it all planned. We are going to get married, and go away some where. Ah, I am too happy, now that I have you too, little sister!"

Her voice was husky and faint, and she brought each word out with difficulty. Sister Mary noticed the exhaustion with horror, and lifted the bandaged head up, to give spoonfuls of some stimulant. The amah stood handy. Elsie smiled dreamily at her, and lay quite still with the precious letters on her breast.

The moonlight was obscured for a moment, and the Mother Superior and the Doctor entered together. Sister Mary waved to them to come under the mosquito curtain. The Doctor examined the chart pinned on the wall, scrutinized the girl's eyes carefully, aud lifted her left hand to feel her pulse. A perturbed expression wrinkled his forehead, and he laid her hand down gently, but with a curious air of finality, and signing to the Mother Superior and Sister Mary, withdrew with them to the verandah. "I can't quite make it out," he said.

"The injury to the head seems to be doing nicely, but there seems to be an unexplainable weakness - the heart perhaps. I wish I had brought the stethoscope, but of course a thorough examination would be difficult through all the bandages. However, we can keep on as beforc. Sister Mary, your nursing has passed the bounds of mere human endurance. You must be worn out! I wish I could give you more hope, but rest is the best thing - rest and absolute quiet. No excitement of any kind - though, indeed, there is little chance of it in this peaceful place," he said, breathing deeply of the perfumed breeze. "It's too bad, indeed, but I'm afraid there is really no hope," he continued to the Mother Superior, as Sister Mary started towards the room. She stopped half way, and cried in tones made tense and clear by agony. "No hope, really, no hope ?

The doctor shook his head and the nun hastened into the patient's room. Elsie had heard the two final words, and she felt a tightening in the throat, and a curious, slow chill crept over her. She clutched the precious letters to her heart. Sister Mary fell again on her knees by the side of the bed, and told her beads with nervous fervour, her coiffed head pressed against the bedside.

"I heard," faltered Elsie. " I heard, sister! I am going to die! Do you know what that means for me? Darkness, loneliness, hopelessness for all eternity! There is no future for me, no heaven, I know it. Oh, I cannot die, I can't. I am afraid, afraid, afraid!"

The feeble voice rose shrill with terror, on the still night. Sister Mary was now praying rapidly, with her streaming eyes hidden in her hands. The amah sat on the foot of the couch, twistmg her hands together in speechless grief.

Elsie was silent for some moments after her outburst, then she said quietly, "Gertrude!"

The nun removed her hands from her face and listened.

"I must see him - Dick - to say good-bye. It is coming fast. I feel it, and unless you hurry it will be too late! Go to him and fetch him!"

Sister Mary shook her head at the hopelessness of the idea, but rose to her feet. I will try, Elsie," she said, and glided out of the room. Shortly after, she returned, and kneeling, put her arms around the girl. "I cannot go." she said, brokenly. " It is against the rules. The Reverend Mother won't let me. Oh, dear child, can't you turn your heart to Heaven and forget this man ?

"There is no Heaven for me, I tel1 you! " the girl cried excitedly. "There is only Dick -anywhere! Go to him. Bring him here! I must see him! How can you think of rules, and prohibitions, when I ani dying! That icy woman cannot feel my agony. Gertrude, I implore you. They cannot do anything to you, even if they find it out, and no one need ever know - the amah will take you to his house, and he will come so quietly, truly he will. Gertrude, have you found me, only to send me to my grave with a broken heart ? Do you want him to curse you for keeping us apart, when I am dying? Think of it ! Oh, go, go, for pity's sake! I will be good - I will be quite quiet - I will not even speak, until I tell him good-bye."

The weak, hurried voice ceased. A strange look of virginal peace came over the white face. Sister Mary bent down and kissed her, saying. "God forgive me for my disobedience, but I will go, come what may!"

The stealthy closing of the little gate made a slight sound down in the court, and then there was utter silence. The candle burned up in a long bright flame. the moon had sunk lower, throwing a longer beam of light on the verandah floor, and defining more clearly the encroaching fingers of the shadow hand. Elsie lay breathless, in a tense expectancy, holding fast to the letters, and listening with strained senses for the footsteps she loved.

Sister Mary was speeding out into the moonlit night, her black gown fluttering, and the great wings of her white cloak gleammg around the set face like a nimbus, as she and the amah hastened along on their errand.

An hour later, the Mother Superior herself opened the gate to admit the nun. Not a word was spoken until they reached the middle of the courtyard. rhen the Mother Superior motioned the Chinese away, and turned and said: "I knew you would go, and I knew that you would come back - alone. Mary, my daughter, you are clinging too much to the world. What arc these people to you, that you should collinlit such an unheard of extravagance - such an unprecedented disobedience? I have been walking here, considering your penance, ever since I discovered your absence."

"Oh, don't talk to me of penances. She is my sister, my little lost sister, given back to me after years of separation! How can I tell her that the man she Ioves has not come - that he will never come! Set me any penance you like - I will pray a week on my bare knees, on the stones of this courtyard, if you will but tell her for me that my flight was useless, that he will not come." Mary grovelled in supplication at the feet of the rigid figure before her.

"No, daughter, you must tell her yourself. That is your penance. You must tell her everything. It is the only proper punishment for both of you, for your disobedience. Come!" The Mother Superior led the way up on to the verandah, and into the room, where the candle flame and the moonlight - rosy life, and pale death - struggled for possession. As they entered the door, the candle guttered out, leaving the white bed bathed in the cold glow of the moon. The tips of the black shadow fingers were waveringly grasping at the foot of the bed, as the night breeze sighed through the palms. The Mother Superior stood at the side of the door, and signed for Mary to kneel in the middle of the room.

Mary sank down, after one appealing look at the inflexible face of the older nun. A long minute of silence, and she began: "Elsie, I went. The amah led me to the place. The house was highted brilliantly, and there were carriages before the gate. As the servant admitted me, I could see through the curtained arch into the drawing room. It was filled with people, and flowers, and shaded lamps. There was a ball going on, a fancy dress ball. I saw the servant go and speak to a young man in a courtier's dress, who was dancing with a girl in white. He seemed annoyed at the interruption, but I could see him excuse himself to the young girl, and follow the servant out into the hall, where I took refuge behind a screen."

" Elsie," she said brokenly, the words seeming to be forced out of her by the stern looks of the Mother Superior, "I told him who I was and where I had come from - how I had broken the rules of my order to come to him, bringing your message. I implored him to return with me, to come then to see you and he. . .oh, my poor little girl, he refused."

Her eyes asked the older nun, "Must I go on?" The Superior bent her head.

"He thanked me, dear, for coming, but said it was impossible that night, but that he would come in the morning. I told him that tomorrow would be too late, that he would not be adn'itted. . .that perhaps you. . .oh, I went down on my knees to implore him to come then. But it was useless! I could not move him. He was embarrassed, unhappy - I could see that - and finally he told me that this ball was being given by his sister to celebrate his engagement to that young girl in white. To think that I should be the one to bring you these tidings! At last, I saw that my pleadings were useless, aud I could not wait any longer. I had to come back - alone!"

With a strangling sob, Sister Mary fell prone among the dragging curtains of the bed. Trembliugly, she waited for the despair of the girl, while the Reverend Mother stood motionless iii her place, and the encroaching hand of the palm shadow clutched the white bed still in its black grasp.

Some minutes passed. Sister Mary lifted her head, amazed at the strange silence which hung over everytlhng. Rising, she tore aside the curtains, and gazed down upon the dead face of the girl who was not to speak until she bade her lover good-bye. A moment Mary stood there, stricken dumb and dazed. Then she turned, and cried in a terrible voice: "Wretched woman, need my penance have been her murder?"

"My daughter,'' the Superior answered, your penance is finished. She was dead before she heard one word froni your lips. Elsie was dead while you were still on your way to her lover. I knew what the result of your quest would be, and that is why I forbade it. Give thanks to God, that for your disobedience, she was not kept alive to hear your story. Your own heart caii tell you what she would have suffered. Be grateful that she was spared this one last pain. Now, go! Go down to the chapel, and pray for her soul. I will watch here."

The next morning, Macdonald's boy brought him several letters with his tea and fruit. A bill or two, a few notes of congratulation were looked over, and then hie opened this one. It read: "My dear Macdonald, In view of your approaching happiness, I dislike exceedigly, to have to obtrude anything unpleasant on your notice, but considering everything, I thought it was my duty to let you know that Elsie died this morning about one o'clock. It is much better that she has escaped all her troubles, as she would have been horribly disfigured, if she had pulled through.

"Wyvert told me this morning on the Race Course of your engagement. My best congratulations to you. I hope you will make her very happy. Esie is to be buried at five flus afternoon. Hot weather, you know. Yours very truly, Martin Booth."

When Macdonald had finished reading this letter, he tore it up into very small pieces, which he dropped among the orange peel on his plate. Then he heaved a deep sigh. It may have been a sigh of regret - or it may have been a sigh of relief.

Sighs are among the most diflicult expressious of emotion to classify. At any rate, he ordered a large pillow of white roses, inscribed with the word "Rest" to be sent to the hospital before five o'clock.