"Yes, shamrock. Queen Alexandra set the fashion, you know. Every one
who wants to do the correct thing wears shamrock today. But of course
you are a Scotchman; you probably have no idea what day it is! So I
don't mind instructing you. It's St. Patrick's Day."

He dare not speak. She took his silence and his rapt gaze on the
little spray of green as token of his admiration of her.

"Perhaps," she rattled on lightly, "you never heard of Patrick, or if
you did, you are inclined to share the modern opinion that 'there never
was no sich a person'--to quote an immortal! If you were an Irishman I
should not dare to whisper such a thing; but a canny Scot could have no
regard for Patrick, even should he believe in him ever so much!"

Bernard kept his self-control, though he was deadly pale as he spoke.

"If it is so correct to wear it, you might give me a bit of it."

Smilingly she complied. He placed it in his buttonhole with what must
have seemed to her elaborate care. Luckily the curtain rose, and he
was free to indulge his thoughts.

Oh, it was almost sacramental--that tiny sprig! How it called up dead
memories--memories of the old land, of his dear ones now gone, of his
boyhood's simple faith!

"If you were an Irishman! . . . Perhaps you never heard of Patrick!"
The frivolous words burned his brain.

O God! Believe in Patrick! His breath came and went. He could hardly