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 Hôpital de Salpêtrière!"
"Ma'm'selle," I exclaimed, "if you talk like that I shall take you on my horse and fly with
