And now permit me to say--" St.George vaguely wished that she would say "let." "I agree with you," he said earnestly, "nothing could be simpler and neater than these calico gowns." The attendant looked curiously at him.
"They are gingham," she rejoined, "and you'll excuse me, I hope, but visitors ain't supposed to converse with the inmates." St.George was vanquished by "converse." "I beg your pardon," he said, "pray forgive me.

I will say good-by to my friend." He turned swiftly and extended his hand to the strange woman behind him.

With the cunning upon which he had counted she gave her own hand, slipping in his the folded paper.

Her eyes, with their haunting watchfulness, held his for a moment as she mutely bent forward when he left her.
The hymn was done and the women were seating themselves, as St.
George with beating heart took his way up the aisle.

What the paper contained he could not even conjecture; but there _was_ a paper and it _did_ contain something which he had a pleasant premonition would be invaluable to him.