a shudder), would be multiplied indefinitely by so slow a method of proceeding.  Certainly this question of money was a serious one, and it was this that Madelon was revolving, as she sat gazing at the golden sunset sky, when she was startled by a sudden rumbling and tumbling in the corridor; in another moment the door was burst open, and Soeur Lucie and another sister appeared, dragging between them a corded trunk, of the most secular appearance, which had apparently seen many places, for it was pasted all over with half-effaced addresses and illustrated hotel advertisements.

Madelon gave a little cry and sprang forward; she knew the box well, and had brought it with her to Liege, but had never seen it since then till to-day.  It was like a little bit of her former life suddenly revived, and rescued from the past years with which so much was buried.

“This is yours apparently, Madeleine,” said Soeur Lucie, her broad, good-humoured face illumined with a smile at the child’s eagerness; “the sight of it has done you good, I think; it is long since you have looked so gay.”

“Yes, it is mine,” cried Madelon; “where had it been all this time, Soeur Lucie?”

“Soeur Marie and I were clearing out a room downstairs, and we found it pushed away in a corner, so we thought we had better bring it up for you to see what was in it.”

“I know,” said Madelon, “it was a trunk of mamma’s; there are some things of hers put away in it, I think.  I never saw them, for we did not take it about with us everywhere; but I brought it with me from Paris, and I suppose Aunt Therese put it away.”

“Our sainted Superior doubtless knew best,” said Soeur Lucie, with a ready faith, which was capable, however, of adjusting itself to meet altered circumstances, “but we are clearing out that room below, which we think of turning into another store-room; we have not half space enough for our confitures as it is, and another large order has arrived to-day.  And so, Madeleine, we had better see of there is anything in the box you wish to keep, and then it can be sent away.  We shall perhaps find some clothes that can be altered for you.”

“Yes,” said Madelon, on whom, in spite of her new schemes and resolutions, that little sentence about sending the box away had a chilling effect; it was like cutting off another link between her and the world.  Soeur Lucie went down on her knees and began to uncord the trunk.

“Here is the key tied to it,” she said; “now we shall see.”

She raised the lid as she spoke, but at that moment a bell began to ring.

“That is for vespers,” she cried, “we must go; Madeleine, in a few days you will be able to come to the chapel again; to-night you can stay and take out these things.  Ah, just as I thought—­there are clothes,” she added, taking a hurried peep, and then followed Soeur Marie out of the room.

Madelon approached the box with a certain awe mixed with her curiosity.  It was quite true that she had never seen what it contained; she only knew that it had been her mother’s, and that various articles belonging to her had been put away in it after her death.  It had never been opened since, to her knowledge; her father had once told her that she might have the contents one day when she was a big girl, but that was all she knew about it.