he girl would like, with wine to
revive the faculties that he knew must be failing. Then, when she had
eaten a little, daintily in spite of her hunger, he encouraged her to
talk.

"Mother and I are all alone in the world," she said. "We are Belgian,
and live in Brussels, but we have drifted about a good deal, just
amusing ourselves. Somehow we never happened to come here until a month
ago. Then my mother said one day in Paris, 'Let us go to Monte Carlo. I
dreamed last night that I won twenty thousand francs there.' My mother
is rather superstitious. We came, and she did win, at first. She was
delighted, and believed in her dream, so much that when she began to
lose, she went up and up, doubling each time. They call the game she
made, 'playing the martingale!'

"She lost all the money we had with us, and telegraphed home for more.
Soon, she had sold out every one of our securities. Then she won, and
went half mad with the joy and excitement, but the joy didn't last long.
She lost all, again--literally, our all. We were penniless. There was
nothing left to pay the hotel bill. I went out, and found a _Mont de
Piete_, just beyond the limits of the Principality; they aren't allowed
inside. I pawned all our jewellery, and as we had a great many valuable
things, I got several thousand francs. I thought the money would last
us until I could find something to do. But, without telling me what she
meant to do, mother took it all to the Casino--and--it followed the
rest.

"She was so horrified at what she had done, when it was too late, that
she wished to kill herself. It was a terrible time for me, but I was so
sorry--so sorry for her."

As the girl said this, she looked full into the young man's eyes, with
her great, appealing ones. He thought that she must have a wonderfully
sweet nature, to have forgiven that horrible, fat old woman, after being
subjected to so much undeserved suffering. It was a thousand pities, he
said to himself, that a really good sort of girl should be forced to
live her life beside a creature of that type, and under such an
influence. He had not quite believed in the poor child, at first,
perhaps, and because he did believe in her now, he felt poignant remorse
for his past injustice.

"What did you do, then?" he asked, honestly absorbed in the story, for
he was a generous and warm hearted fellow, who found most of his
pleasure, in these latter days, in the help he could give others, to
make them ha