I cannot--don't go!"

She was holding him so tightly that he could not move, her
eyes fixed on his face with an intensity of pleading. He was
almost sorry that he had come at all.

"My poor little Madelon," he said, "I must go--I must, you
know--there--there, good-bye, good-bye."

He squeezed the little hands that were clinging so desperately
to him, again and again, and then tried gently to unloose
them; suddenly she relaxed her hold, and flung herself away
from him. Graham hastened away without another word, but as he
reached the door he turned round for one more look. Madelon
had thrown herself down upon the low window-seat, her face
buried in her folded arms, her frame shaking with sobs; the
nun had come forward and was trying to comfort her--the bare
grey walls, the black dresses, the despairing little figure
crouching there, and outside the courtyard all aglow in the
afternoon sunshine, with pigeons whirring and perching on the
sloping roofs, spreading their wings against the blue sky--it
was a little picture that long lived in Graham's memory. Poor
little Madelon!

CHAPTER VI.

In the Convent.

Not till Monsieur Horace was indeed gone, and there was no
longer any hope of seeing him return, not till the last door
was closed between them, the last link broken with the outer
world, not till then perhaps did our little Madelon begin to
comprehend the change that one brief fortnight had worked in
her whole life. Till now, she had scarcely felt the full
bitterness of her father's death, or understood that the old,
happy, bright, beautiful life was at an end for ever. These
last days had been so full of excitement, she had been so
hurried from one new sensation to another, that she had not
had time to occupy herself exclusively with this great sorrow
that had fallen upon her; but there was nothing to distract
her now. Her father's death, which she had found so hard to
understand in the midst of everyday life and familiar
associations, she realized all too bitterly when such
realization was aided by the blank convent walls and the dull
convent routine; the sorrow that had been diverted for a
moment by another strong predominant feeling, returned with
overwhelming force when on every side she saw none but strange
faces, heard none but unfamiliar voices; liberty, and joy, and
affection seemed suddenly to have taken to themselves wings
and deserted her, and she was left alone with her desolation.

The chil