"Well, Lucille?"
"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a prince who shall come, who shall pass by all the rich and beautiful women, and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them a silly girl's fancies?"
"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."
"Do you?" Lucille asked.
"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," said Christine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."
"Will you?" was the eager question.
"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of death and a prison—death in the city, a prison in this house."
"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.
"I have a mind to go out for a little while."
"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."