He dressed himself quickly and left his room to walk down the length of

the long hall and observe the cells on each side. The doors were at

regular intervals, and each door had in its center a small opening to

enable the proprietor to look in upon the patients.

As these were all women, and some of them delicate and refined even in

their insanity, Traverse felt shocked at this necessary, if it were

necessary, exposure of their sanctuary.

The cells were, in fact, small bedrooms that with their white-washed

walls and white-curtained beds and windows looked excessively neat,

clean and cool, but also, it must be confessed, very bare, dreary and

cheerless.

"Even a looking-glass would be a great benefit to those poor girls, for

I remember that even Clara, in her violent grief, and mother in her

lifelong sorrow, never neglected their looking-glass and personal

appearance," said Traverse to himself, as he passed down the hall and

resolved that this little indulgence should be afforded the patients.

And except those first involuntary glances he scrupulously avoided

looking in through the gratings upon those helpless women who had no

means of secluding themselves.

But as he turned to go down the stairs his eyes went full into an

opposite cell and fell upon a vision of beauty and sorrow that

immediately riveted his gaze.

It was a small and graceful female figure, clothed in deep black,

seated by the window, with her elbow resting upon the sill and her chin

supported on her hand. Her eyes were cast down until her eyelashes lay

like inky lines upon her snow-white cheek. Her face, of classic

regularity and marble whiteness, bore a ghastly contrast to the long

eyelashes, arched eyebrows and silken ringlets black as midnight. She

might have been a statue or a picture, so motionless she sat.

Conscious of the wrong of gazing upon this solitary woman, Traverse

forced his looks away and passed on down-stairs, where he again met the

old doctor and Mademoiselle Angele at breakfast.

After breakfast Doctor St. Jean invited his young assistant to

accompany him on a round of visits to the patients, and they went

immediately up to the hall, at the end of which Traverse had slept.

"There are our incurables, but they are not violent; incurables never

are! Poor Mademoiselle! She has just been conveyed to this ward," said

the doctor, opening the door of the first cell on the right at the head

of the stairs and admitting Traverse at once into the presence of the

beautiful, black-haired, snow-faced woman, who had so much interested

him.




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