the thirty sous I earn--a poor work-woman!"

The two penniless creatures, worked up by their own war of words, grew
vehement; and for the first time the unhappy artist reproached his
benefactress for having rescued him from death only to make him lead
the life of a galley slave, worse than the bottomless void, where at
least, said he, he would have found rest. And he talked of flight.

"Flight!" cried Lisbeth. "Ah, Monsieur Rivet was right."

And she clearly explained to the Pole that within twenty-four hours he
might be clapped into prison for the rest of his days. It was a
crushing blow. Steinbock sank into deep melancholy and total silence.

In the course of the following night, Lisbeth hearing overhead some
preparations for suicide, went up to her pensioner's room, and gave
him the schedule and a formal release.

"Here, dear child, forgive me," she said with tears in her eyes. "Be
happy; leave me! I am too cruel to you; only tell me that you will
sometimes remember the poor girl who has enabled you to make a living.
--What can I say? You are the cause of my ill-humor. I might die;
where would you be without me? That is the reason of my being
impatient to see you do some salable work. I do not want my money back
for myself, I assure you! I am only frightened at your idleness, which
you call meditation; at your ideas, which take up so many hours when
you sit gazing at the sky; I want you to get into habits of industry."

All this was said with an emphasis, a look, and tears that moved the
high-minded artist; he clasped his benefactress to his heart and