haracter in no very favourable light; more than this he
could not say. Of Madelon he spoke with the warmest affection,
and there was a little note enclosed to her in Graham's
letter, which she placed, and carefully preserved, we may be
sure, amongst her most precious treasures.

These letters written, and M. Linders' few papers, which were
of little interest or importance, examined, Graham had
exhausted his sources of possible information, and could only
trust no obstacle would intervene to prevent his little charge
being at once received at the convent, and placed under her
aunt's guardianship and care. So, with as little delay as
possible, they had packed up, and set off on their journey:
and now, as Madelon stands at the window of the little hotel
salon, Paris lies many a league behind them, beyond the great
northern levels, across which they have been speeding for so
many hours. And behind her, too, already separated from her by
a distance more impassable than that which can be counted by
leagues, lies Madelon's old life, to which many and many a
time, with passionate outcries, perhaps, with tender
unspeakable yearnings, she will look back across an ever-
widening space, only to see it recede more hopelessly into a
remoter past.

She does not understand all this yet, however, with the new
life scarcely a week old. She is thinking of Monsieur Horace,
as she stands there looking out at the sunset sky; they have
just dined, and behind her a deft waiter is removing the
cloth; and in a minute she turns round gladly, as Monsieur
Horace himself comes into the room.

"Shall we take a walk, Madelon?" he says, "or are you too
tired?"

"I am not at all tired," Madelon answered. "I should like to
have a walk; may we go and look at the convent where Aunt
Therese lives? I should like to see it."

"That is a good idea," said Horace. "I will inquire
whereabouts it is, and we will go and have a look at it."

The convent, they were told, stood on the outskirts of Liege,
about a quarter of a mile outside the town, and a little off
the great highroad leading through Chaudfontaine and its
adjacent villages to Pepinster and Spa. It was at some
distance from the hotel; but Madelon repeated that she was not
at all tired, and would like a long walk, so they set off
together in the mild September evening. To their left lay the
old town with its picturesque churches, its quaint old
Bishop's palace, its tall chimneys and busy quays