"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." "But what would you do?" "I do not know. I suppose I can do nothing because--alas! because my father has bought my obedience with a million francs. Do you not see that I am in bondage?" "Be patient; the life of a rich demoiselle is not barren of opportunity." "To be gay--oh! one might as well be a peacock; to say pretty things, one might better be a well-trained parrot; to grace the court or the salon, I had as soon be a statue in the corner--it has more comfort, more security; to be admired, to hear fine compliments--well, you know that is the part of a pet poodle. I say, captain, to be happy one must be free to do." I looked into her big eyes, that were full of their new discovery. "I should like to be among the wounded soldiers," said she, her face brightening. "It did make me very happy to sit by your bedside and do for you." There was a very tender look in her eyes then. She started to rise. A brier, stirring in the breeze, had fallen across her hair. She let me loose the thorns, and, doing so, I kissed her forehead--I could not help it. "M'sieur!" she exclaimed in a whisper. Then she turned quickly away and stood tearing a leaf in her fingers. "Forgive me!" I pleaded, for I saw she was crying. "It was the impulse of a moment. Pray forgive me!" She stood motionless and made no answer, I never felt such a stir in me, for I had a fear, a terrible fear, that I had lost what I might never have again. "It was honorable admiration," I continued, rising to my full height beside her. "Tell me, ma'm'selle, have I hurt you?" "No," said she, in a voice that trembled. "I am thinking--I am thinking of somebody else." The words, spoken so slowly, so sweetly, seemed, nevertheless, to fly at me. "Of somebody else!" Whom could she mean? Had her sister told her? Did she know of my meeting with Louison? I was about to confess how deeply, how tenderly, I loved her. I had spoken the first word when this thought flashed upon me, and I halted. I could not go on.