with hands under their gray sleeves two white-bonneted religieuses turned into bourbon street and rang the chapdelaines' street bell.

mlle. yvonne flutteringly let them into the garden, mlle. corinne into the house. the conversation was in english, for, though sister constance was french, sister st. anne, young, fair, and the chief speaker, was irish. they came from sister superior veronique, they said, to see further about mesdemoiselles entering, eh----

smilingly mesdemoiselles fluttered more than ever. "ah, yes, yes! well, you know, sinze we talk ab-out that with the archbishop we've talk' ab-out it with our niece al-so, and we think she's got to get marrie' befo' we can do that, biccause to live al-lone that way she's too young. but we 'ave the 'ope she's goin' to marry, and then----!"

"have you made a will?"

"will! ah, we di'n' never think of that! tha'z a marvellouz we di'n' never think of that--when we are the two-third' owner' of that lovely proprity there! and we think tha'z always improving in cozt, that place, biccause so antique an' so pittoresque. and if aline she marrie' and we, we join that asylum doubtlezz aline she'll be rij-oice' to combine with us to leave that lovely proprity ad the lazt to the church! biccause, you know, to take that to heaven with us, tha'z impossible, and the church tha'z the nearez' we can come." odd as the moment seemed for them, tears rolled down their smiling faces.

"but"--they dried their eyes--"there's another thing also bisside'. we are, all three, the authorezz' of a story that we are prettie sure tha'z accept' by the publisher'; an' of co'ze if tha'z accept'--and if those publisher' they don' swin'le us, like so oftten--we don't need to be orphan' never any mo', and we'll maybe move up-town and juz' keep that proprity here for a souvenir of our in-fancy. but that be two-three days yet biffo' we can be sure ab-oud that. maybe ad the laz' we'll 'ave to join the asylum, but tha'z our hope, to move up town into the quartier nouveau and that beautiful 'garden diztric'.' but we'll always con-tinue to love the old 'ouse here. 'tis a very genuine ancient relique, that 'ouse. you see those wall'? solid plank of two inch' and from kentucky!" they went through the whole story--the house, the relics of their childhood--"go you, yvonne, fedge them!"

the meek religieuses did their best to be both interested and sincere, but somehow found diplomacy to escape the "li'l' lake" and its goldfish, and even took the piety of the cat with a dampening absence of mind. their departure was almost hurried. there was nothing to do on either side, the four agreed, but to wait the turn of events.

the two gray robes and white bonnets had but just got away when the bell rang again and mlle. yvonne let in mme. de l'isle and mrs. chester.

but these calls were in mid-afternoon. the evening previous--"show mr. chester to three-thirty-three," the hotel clerk had said, and presently mrs. chester was all but perishing in the arms of her son.

"geoffry! geoffry! you needn't be ferocious!"

they took seats facing each other, low seats that touched; but when they joined hands a second time he dropped to his knees, asking many questions already answered in her regular and frequent letters. news is so different by word of mouth when the mouth's the sweetest, sacredest ever kissed. "and how's father?"

as if he didn't know to the last detail!

all at once--"why didn't you say you were coming?" he savagely demanded.

"no matter," his mother replied, "i'm glad i didn't, things have happened so pleasantly. i've seen your whole royal street coterie, except, of course----"

"yes, of course."

the mother told her evening's experience.

"and you like my friends?"

"why, geoffry, you're right to love them. but, now, how came you back so soon from st. what's-his-name?"

"opposing counsel compromised the case without trial. mother, it's the greatest professional victory i've ever won."

"oh, how fine! geoffry, how are you getting on, professionally, anyhow?"

"better than my best hope, dear; far better. i've shot right up!"

"then why do you look so weary and care-worn?"

"i don't. i'm older, that's all, dear."

"oh! prospering and care-free, and yet you'd drop everything and go to france, to war."

"no, dearie, no. i'm sorry i wrote you what i did, but i only said i felt like it. i don't now. i envied those royal street boys, who could do that with a splendid conscience. i--i can't. i can't go killing men, even murderers, for a remote personal reason. i must wait till my own country calls and my patriotism is pure patriotism. that's higher honor--to her, isn't it?"

"it is to you; i'm not bothering about her."

"you will when you see her, first sight. to-morrow afternoon, you say. wish i could be there when your eyes first light on her! mother, dearie, isn't it as much she as i you've come to see?"

"well, if it is, what then?"

"i'm glad. but i draw the line at seeing. help, you understand, i don't want--i won't have!"

"why, geoffry, i----!"

"oh, i say it because there isn't one of that kind-hearted coterie who hasn't wanted to put in something in my favor. i forbid! a dozen to one--i won't allow it! no, nor any two to one, not even we two. win or lose, i go it alone. 'twould be fatal to do otherwise if i would. you'll see that the minute you see her."

"why, geoffry! what a heat!"

"oh, i'll be the only one burned. good night. i can't see you to-morrow before evening. shall we dine here?"

"yes. oh, geoffry--that new york letter! manuscript accepted?"

a shade crossed the son's brow. "don't you think i ought to tell her first?"

"her first," the mother--the mother--repeated after him. "maybe so; i don't care." they kissed. "good night."

"good night . . . good night . . . good night, dear, darling mother. good night!"