The fact of M. Linders having quarrelled with his sister had, on the whole, tended to prejudice the latter in his favour rather than otherwise, for M. Linders unfortunately seemed to have had a talent for quarrelling with every respectable friend and relation that he possessed; and it was with a strong hope of finding a good and kind guardian for Madelon in her aunt, that he had started for the convent.  He wrote a few words of explanation on his card, and this, with M. Linders’ letter, he sent in to the Lady Superior, and in return was requested to wait in the parlour till she should come to him.  A key was handed to him, and he let himself into a large, square room, furnished with a table, a piano, and some straw chairs; a wooden grating shut off one end, within which were another table and more chairs; one or two prints of sacred subjects were on the walls, two large windows high up showed the tops of green trees in a sunny inner courtyard,—­Graham had time to take in all these details before a door on the other side of the 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.”