he grating opened and the Lady Superior appeared.

Mademoiselle Linders had doubtless displayed a wise judgment
in her choice of life; she could never under any circumstances
have shone in society, but there was something imposing in her
tall figure in its straight black draperies, and the ease and
dignity to which she could never have attained in a Paris
salon, she had acquired without difficulty in her convent
parlour. She had worked hard to obtain her present position,
and she filled it with a certain propriety of air and
demeanour. But her features were harsh, and her thin, worn
face, so far as could be distinguished beneath the half-
concealing black veil, wore a stern, discontented expression.
Somehow, Graham already felt very sorry for little Madelon, as
holding M. Linders' letter in one hand, the Superior
approached the grating, and sitting down on the inner side,
invited him by action, rather than words, to resume his chair
on the other.

"If I am not mistaken, Monsieur," she began in a constrained,
formal voice, "it was from you that I received a letter last
week, announcing my brother's death?" Graham bowed.

"I thought it unnecessary to answer it," continued the
Superior, "as you stated that you proposed coming to Liege
almost immediately. If I understand rightly, you attended my
brother in his last illness?"

"I did, Madame--it was a short one, as you are aware----"

"Yes, yes, an accident--I understood as much from your letter,"
says Madame, dismissing that part of the subject with a wave
of her hand; "and the little girl?"

"She is here--in Liege that is--we arrived last night."

"In this letter," says the Superior, slowly unfolding the
paper, "with the contents of which you are doubtless
acquainted, Monsieur----"

"I wrote it at M. Linders' dictation, Madame."

"Ah, exactly--in this letter then, I see that my brother wishes
me to take charge of his child. I confess that, after all that
has passed between us, I am at a loss to imagine on what
grounds he can found such a request."

"But--pardon me, Madame--" said Graham, "as your brother's only
surviving relative--so at least I understood him to say--you
surely become the natural guardian of his child."

"My brother and I renounced each other, and parted years ago,
Monsieur; were you at all intimate with him?"

"Not in the least," replied Graham; "I knew nothing, or next
to nothing, of him, till I attended him in his last illness;
it was