“Because that ought to be sold for something,” she said.  “I am almost glad you had it cut off.  My hair-dresser told me once he would give five guineas for a head of hair like mine, it was so long and the color was uncommon.  Five guineas would not be half enough to pay you though, I know.”

She spoke so simply and quietly, that I did not attempt to remonstrate with her about her anxiety to pay me.

“Tardif has it,” I said; “but of course he will give it you back again.  Shall I sell it for you, mam’zelle?”

“Oh, that is just what I could not ask you!” she exclaimed.  “You see there is no one to buy it here, and I hope it may be a long time before I go away.  I don’t know, though; that depends upon whether I can dispose of my things.  There is my seal-skin, it cost twenty-five guineas last year, and it ought to be worth something.  And my watch—­see what a nice one it is.  I should like to sell them all, every one.  Then I could stay here as long as the money lasted.”

“How much do you pay here?” I inquired, for she had taken me so far into counsel that I felt justified in asking that question.

“A pound a week,” she answered.

“A pound a week!” I repeated, in amazement.  “Does Tardif know that?”

“I don’t think he does,” she said.  “When I had been here a week I gave Mrs. Tardif a sovereign, thinking perhaps she would give me a little out of it.  I am not used to being poor, and I did not know how much I ought to pay.  But she kept it all, and came to me every week for more.  Was it too much to pay?”

“Too much!” I said.  “You should have spoken to Tardif about it, my poor child.”

“I could not talk to Tardif about his mother,” she answered.  “Besides, it would not have been too much if I had only had plenty.  But it has made me so anxious.  I did not know whatever I should do when it was all gone.  I do not know now.”

Here was a capital opening for a question about her friends.

“You will be compelled to communicate with your family,” I said.  “You have told me how poor you are; cannot you trust me about your friends?”

“I have no friends,” she answered, sorrowfully.  “If I had any, do you suppose I should be here?”

“I am one,” I said, “and Tardif is another.”

“Ah, new friends,” she replied; “but I mean real old friends who have known you all your life, like your mother, Dr. Martin, or your cousin Julia.  I want somebody to go to who knows all about me, and say to them, after telling them every thing, keeping nothing back at all, ’Have I done right?  What else ought I to have done?’ No new friend could answer questions like those.”

Was there any reason I could bring forward to increase her confidence in me?  I thought there was, and her friendlessness and helplessness touched me to the core of my heart.  Yet it was with an indefinable reluctance that I brought forward my argument.