the choir sang forth, "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison." One
voice, flute-like, piercing, sweet, rang high over the rest.
Sister Josepha heard and trembled, as she buried her face in her
hands, and let her tears fall, like other beads, through her
rosary.

It was when the final word of the service had been intoned, the
last peal of the exit march had died away, that she looked up
meekly, to encounter a pair of youthful brown eyes gazing
pityingly upon her. That was all she remembered for a moment,
that the eyes were youthful and handsome and tender. Later, she
saw that they were placed in a rather beautiful boyish face,
surmounted by waves of brown hair, curling and soft, and that the
head was set on a pair of shoulders decked in military uniform.
Then the brown eyes marched away with the rest of the rear guard,
and the white-bonneted sisters filed out the side door, through
the narrow court, back into the brown convent.

That night Sister Josepha tossed more than usual on her hard bed,
and clasped her fingers often in prayer to quell the wickedness
in her heart. Turn where she would, pray as she might, there was
ever a pair of tender, pitying brown eyes, haunting her
persistently. The squeaky organ at vespers intoned the clank of
military accoutrements to her ears, the white bonnets of the
sisters about her faded into mists of curling brown hair.
Briefly, Sister Josepha was in love.

The days went on pretty much as before, save for the one little
heart that beat rebelliously now and then, though it tried so
hard to be submissive. There was the morning work in the