what memories from her childhood and girlhood, what shadows from the old Paris life, were thronging round Therese Linders, as with changed name and dress she sat there in her convent parlour!  Old familiar forms flitting to and fro, old voices ringing in her ears, her brother young, handsome, and indulged, herself plain, unprepossessing, neglected, and a mother whom she had held to and watched till the last, yet turning from her to the son who had scorned her wishes and broken her heart.  It had all happened twenty-five years ago, but to the Superior it seemed but as yesterday.  The old hatred blazed up again, in the form, as it doubtless appeared to her, of an anger righteous even against the dead.  Nor was the revival without its charms, with all its old associations of strife and antagonism—­like a breeze blowing freshly from the outer world, and suddenly stirring the slow, creeping current of her daily life.

“I never said I would not take charge of my niece,” she said; “on the contrary, I have every intention of so doing.  I only wish to make it clearly understood that my brother had no sort of claim upon me, and that I consider every line of this letter an insult.”

“His child, at least, is innocent,” began Graham.

“I am not likely to hold her responsible for her father’s misdeeds,” says Madame, drawing herself up.  “I repeat that I am willing to receive my niece at once, though I cannot suppose that with the education and training she has received, she is likely to be anything but a burden and a care; however, that can be looked to and corrected!”

“Indeed you will find her a most innocent and loveable child,” pleaded Graham eagerly, and not without an inward dismay at the idea of our little unconscious Madelon being looked to, and corrected by this grim woman; “she thinks her father was perfection, it is true, but it is through her total want of comprehension of his real character, and of the nature of his pursuits; and—­believe me, Madame, it would be cruel to disturb that ignorance.”

“She has nothing to fear from me in that respect,” said the Superior coldly; “my brother might have spared the threats with which he insults me; his child will never hear his name mentioned by me.  From the time she enters this house her past life is at an end; she must lean to forget it, and prepare for the future she will spend here.”

“Not as a nun!” cried Graham involuntarily.

“And why not as a nun, Monsieur?”

“It was her father’s last wish, his dying request that she should never become a nun:  it was the fear of some such design on your part that made him hesitate about sending her to you, Madame.  You must surely understand from his letter how anxious he is on that point.”

“I see that he proposes an alternative that I cannot contemplate for a moment; it is not to train actresses that we receive pupils at the convent, Monsieur; and I have too much regard for my niece’s welfare not to prepare her for that life which on earth is the most peaceful and blessed, and which will win for its followers so rich a reward hereafter.  But pardon me—­I cannot expect you to agree with me on this point, and it is one that it is useless for us to discuss.”