r of a
convent near Liege, and that English gentleman--the doctor, you
know--will take you to her; do you understand?"

"Yes, papa."

"Well, you must stay with her for the present. It is not just
what I could have wished for you, _ma petite_, but I have no
choice, as it happens; and if ever you are dull or unhappy
there, you will not blame me, or think I was unkind in sending
you, will you, my child? for indeed I could not help it, and
you will be a good little girl, I know. By-and-by, as I said,
perhaps you will marry--I cannot arrange all these matters
beforehand. I used to think sometimes that perhaps you might
have come out on the stage a few years hence. Would you have
liked that, Madelon?"

"Yes--no--oh, I don't know, papa--I want you--I want you!"

"Yes--you will want me, _pauvre petite_. Good Heavens! that a
child so small, so young should be left without me to take
care of her! Bah, I must not think of it. Madelon, there is
one thing more you must promise me--never to become a nun."

"A nun, papa?"

"Yes, a nun," he repeated, in his feeble vehement way, "a nun
like your aunt Therese. Do you know what it means? To grow
pious, and narrow-minded, and sour, to live for ever shut up
between four walls from which there is no escape, to think
yourself better than all the world. Madelon, promise me never
to become a nun; if I thought that were the future in store
for you--promise me, I say."

"I promise, papa," she said, quite solemnly, putting her hands
together with a quaint little gesture; "indeed I should not
like it at all."

"If I could only foresee--if I could only arrange," he said
piteously. "God knows I have done what I think is best for
you, my child, and yet--who knows what may come of it?
Madelon," he went on in a faint, pleading, broken voice, "you
will not let them make you think ill of me, and blame and
despise me when I am dead? They will try perhaps, but you must
always love me, my darling, as you do now; it must not be all
in vain--all that I have been striving for--ah, don't cry--there--
we won't talk any more now--another time."

There was a minute's silence in the darkening twilight;
Madelon's face was hidden in her father's shoulder, as he lay
there with his arm still round her and his eyes closed, faint
and exhausted. All of a sudden he roused himself with a start.

"Ah, I am dying!" he cried, with a hoarse voice, "and it is
all dark! Light the candles, Madelon--light them quick