to sleep, mother." Her great brown eyes soften as only a mother's can. She, too, holds a guitar. She, too, is singing:
"Slumber, my darling dodo,
Dodo—Dodo
Ave Maria—Dodo."
"My singing evidently has not what Doctor Brinton would call a 'soothing effect' upon you," Celeste laughed, putting aside her guitar. "I must devise other means for entertainment. I have it; let me read your palm."
Hernando hesitated but resistance was futile and he held toward her a shapely white hand.
She looked at it fixedly for a few seconds while the color came and went in her perfect face. Twice she essayed to speak, but as quickly the coral lips closed without a sound.
"Let me see the right hand."
He did so. Another long scrutiny.
"Well!" he said, "I've dabbled a little in palmistry, myself. Let me help you. Life line broken in both hands at about the age of
