e, seemed quite irrelevant to
the matter in hand, but nevertheless imparted a sudden chill.

"Not at all naughty," said Madame, at last, rallying, and
still busy about the sofa, where Madelon had passively and
wearily laid back her aching little head. "It was the very
best thing she could do. Nun, indeed! I have no great opinion
of convents, nor nuns either, myself; an idle pack--the best of
them only say more prayers than their neighbours, and there is
nothing very clever in that. I could do it myself, if I had
the time."

"But it is very singular," said the Countess, getting up.
"That is certainly the same little girl I travelled with from
Chaudfontaine this morning. I thought there was something odd
about her; she would not answer any of my questions. But there
is no convent at Chaudfontaine. Are you sure she is telling
you the truth?"

"Of course she is, Madame--I have known her since--since she was
that high," replied Madame Bertrand, with some indignation; a
reply so conclusive to herself, that its want of apparent
logic may be pardoned. "Tell me, _mon enfant_, where is your
convent that you speak of."

"At Liege," said Madelon, rousing and trying to sit up. "Aunt
Therese was the Superior, but she is dead. I walked to
Chaudfontaine in the night--and--oh, Madame Bertrand, don't let
them come and take me back!" She gave a terrified glance round
the room, and caught hold of Madame Bertrand.

"No one shall take you away; don't be afraid, _chere petite_;
but tell us all bout it. Walked to Chaudfontaine in the night!
Why, you must be half dead, poor little one! And what have you
come to Spa for--have you any friends here?"

"No," said Madelon, "I thought you would help me, and let me
stay here for a little while."

"And so you shall--for as long as you like," said Madame; "but
what have you come here for? Have you no friends to go to?"

"Yes--I--I--ah, I forgot!" cried Madelon, burying her face in her
hands. All of a sudden she remembered how she had intended
writing to Monsieur Horace, all that she had meant to say to
him, and how she would have asked him to come and help her--and
now all that was at an end. As to telling Madame Bertrand or
any one else of her cherished plans--never; that was her own
secret, which she would never, never part with, except to
Monsieur Horace himself. "I forgot," she cried, "I have no
one--ah? what shall I do, what shall I do?"

"Do!" said the Countess, interposing with muc