She had callers presently--the Sieur Michel and his daughter. I went away, then, for a walk, and, after a time, strolled into the north trail. Crossing a mossy glade, in a circle of fragrant cedar, I sat down to rest. The sound of falling water came to my ear through thickets of hazel and shadberry. Suddenly I heard a sweet voice singing a love-song of Provence--the same voice, the same song, I had heard the day I came half fainting on my horse. Somebody was coming near. In a moment I saw Louise before me. "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?"