“What, ma’m’selle!” I said; “alone in the woods!”

“Not so,” said she.  “I knew you were here—­somewhere, and—­and—­well, I thought you might be lonely.”

“You are a good angel,” I said, “always trying to make others happy.”

“Eh bien,” said she, sitting beside me, “I was lonely myself.  I cannot read or study.  I have neglected my lessons; I have insulted the tutor—­threw my book at him, and walked away, for he sputtered at me.  I do not know what is the matter.  I know I am very wicked.  Perhaps—­ah me! perhaps it is the devil.”

“Ma’m’selle, it is appalling!” I said.  “You may have injured the poor man.  You must be very bad.  Let me see your palm.”

I held her dainty fingers in mine, that were still hard and brown, peering into the pink hollow of her hand.  She looked up curiously.

“A quick temper and a heart of gold,” I said.  “If the devil has it, he is lucky, and—­well, I should like to be in his confidence.”

“Ah, m’sieur,” said she, seriously, a little tremor on her lips, “I have much trouble—­you do not know.  I have to fight with myself.”

“You have, then, a formidable enemy,” I answered.

“But I am not quarrelsome,” said she, thoughtfully.  “I am only weary of the life here.  I should like to go away and be of some use in the world.  I suppose it is wicked, for my papa wishes me to stay.  And bah! it is a prison—­a Hopital de Salpetriere!”

“Ma’m’selle,” I exclaimed, “if you talk like that I shall take you on my horse and fly with you.  I shall come as your knight, as your deliverer, some day.”

“Alas!” said she, with a sigh, “you would find me very heavy.  One has nothing to do here but grow lazy and—­ciel!—­fat.”

If my meeting with her sister had not made it impossible and absurd, I should have offered my heart to this fair young lady then and there.  Now I could not make it seem the part of honor and decency.  I could not help adoring her simplicity, her frankness, her beautiful form and face.

“It is no prison for me,” I said.  “I do not long for deliverance.  I cannot tell you how happy I have been to stay—­how unhappy I shall be to leave.”

“Captain,” she said quickly, “you are not strong; you are no soldier yet.”

“Yes; I must be off to the wars.”

“And that suggests an idea,” said she, thoughtfully, her chin upon her hand.

“Which is?”

“That my wealth is ill-fortune,” she went on, with a sigh.  “Men and women are fighting and toiling and bleeding and dying to make the world better, and I—­I am just a lady, fussing, primping, peering into a looking-glass!  I should like to do something, but they think I am too good—­too holy.”

“But it is a hard business—­the labors and quarrels of the great world,” I suggested.

“Well—­it is God’s business,” she continued.  “And am I not one of his children, and ’wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?’ It was not too good for the man who said that.”