of absorbed people, and presently she caught her breath. The man who was
the centre of the group, who was making, apparently, the amusement, was
the young clergyman, Norman North.

There was an outburst, a chorus of: "You can't have that one, Mr.
North!" "That's been used!" "That's Mr. Dennison's!"

A tall English officer--a fine, manly mixture of big muscles and fresh
color and khaki--looked up, saw the girl, and swung toward her. "Good
morning, Miss Newbold. Come and join the fun. Devil of a fellow, that
North,--they say he's a parson."

"What is it? What are they laughing at?" Katherine demanded.

"They're doing a Limerick tournament, which is what North calls the
game. Mr. Gale is timekeeper. They're to see which recites most rhymes
inside five minutes. The winner picks his court and plays with Miss
Lee."

Captain Comerford imparted this in jerky whispers, listening with one
ear all the time to a sound which stirred Katherine, the voice which she
had heard yesterday in the church at St. George's. The Englishman's
spasmodic growl stopped, and she drifted a step nearer, listening. As
she caught the words, her brows drew together with displeasure, with
shocked surprise. The inspired saint of yesterday was reciting with
earnestness, with every delicate inflection of his beautiful voice,
these words:

"There was a young curate of Kidderminster,
Who kindly, but firmly, chid a spinster,