Upon the stones she was kneeling in abject despair. In her dark hair she had placed a crimson rose, and her delicate white hands, upon which some bright gems glistened, were wet with bitter tears. My feet fell noiselessly upon the matting, and she was unaware of my presence, until, placing my hand lightly upon her shoulder, I bent, exclaiming in French:-- "Mademoiselle is unhappy! Is there no assistance I can render?" She started, raising her pale, pensive face to mine in surprise. Then in sorrow she shook her head. "M'sieur is very kind," she answered, in a voice that betrayed a poignant grief. "Words of sympathy may lighten one's burden of sorrow, but nothing can heal a broken heart." "It mainly depends on how the fracture was caused," I answered, smiling, and, grasping her tiny hand, assisted her to rise. She brushed the dust from her dress, dashed away her tears, and, turning to me, said-- "I have heard that gaiety is efficacious--sometimes." "Until I know the cause, I cannot prescribe for the effect," I replied, as I held open the door and she passed out into the sunlight. "Ah, m'sieur," she sighed bitterly, her beautiful eyes still full of tears, "woe is my heritage! The brightness of each dawn jars upon me, showing me how gloomy life is, and how utterly hopeless and lonely is the sea of despair upon which I am drifting. I welcome each night with joy, because--because it brings me one day nearer--nearer to _death_." "You are young and fair; you have joy and life around you. Surely you are joking?" "No, m'sieur. Ah, you do not know!" she sighed. "If you were aware of my secret, you would, I assure you, not be surprised that, even though surrounded by friends, I desire to die." "But it is so extraordinary!" I said, walking beside her and chatting as if we were old acquaintances. "Have you never tried to unburden yourself by confiding your secret to some friend?" "_Dieu_! No. I--I dare not." "Dare not?" I echoed. "Of what are you afraid?" "Afraid?" she repeated in a strained voice, speaking like one in a dream, with her eyes fixed straight before her. "Yes, I--I am a wretched, miserable coward, because I fear the punishment." "Is your crime of such a flagitious character, then?" "My crime?" she cried, turning suddenly upon me with flashing eyes. "What--what do you know of my crime? What do you insinuate?" "Nothing, mademoiselle," I answered, as politely as I could, though amazed at her sudden change of manner. "Your own strange words must be my excuse for inquisitiveness." "Then let us change the subject. To you my private affairs can be of no concern whatever."