quite a newly awakened dread that even now unfriendly eyes might be watching her from some one of the carriage-windows, that she jumped hastily into the nearest compartment she could find.  It was not empty, however, for the Countess, who had preceded her across the bridge had already taken her place, and was arranging her flounces in one corner.  She looked up, astounded at Madelon’s somewhat precipitate entrance; and as the train moved off, she treated her small companion to a most unceremonious stare, which took in every detail of her personal appearance.

“Are you travelling alone?” she asked, at length, abruptly.

“Yes, madame,” said Madelon, getting rather red.  She had resented the stare, and did not want to be talked to; her one idea now was to get to Spa unnoticed.  But she had ill-chosen her travelling companion—­the Countess was a lady whose impertinent curiosity was rarely baffled.

“What! quite alone?  Is there nobody at all with you?”

“No, madame.”

“But that is very extraordinary, and not at all the thing for a young person of your age.  What makes you go about all by yourself?”

“I—­I have no one to go with me,” faltered Madelon, getting more and more hot and uncomfortable.

“But that is very strange, and, as one may say, very improper; have you no friends?”

“Yes,—­no,” began Madelon; but at that moment, with a shriek, the train entered a tunnel, and the sudden noise and darkness put a stop to the conversation for a time.  The Countess began again presently, however, as they went speeding across the next valley.

“Do you live at Chaudfontaine?” was her next inquiry.

“No,” says poor Madelon, looking around despairingly, as for some means of escape; but that was hopeless, and she could only shrink further into her corner.

“And where are you going now, then?”

“I am going to Spa.”

“To Spa?  Ah, indeed—­and what are you going to do there?  Perhaps,” said the Countess, more graciously, and with another glance at the shabby frock and poor little bundle, “perhaps you are going into some situation there?”

“Situation?” repeated Madelon, bewildered.

“Yes—­you would make a very nice little nursery-maid, I dare say,” said the Countess, with much condescension; “and, indeed, if you should be wanting any assistance in that way, you have only to apply to me; and if you can produce good credentials, I shall be most happy to assist you.  I am always ready to help deserving young people.”

Madelon grew red as fire.  “I am not a nursery-maid,” she said, with much indignation; “I don’t know what you mean, and you have no right to ask me so many questions—­I will not answer any more.”

Another shriek and another tunnel; when they once more emerged into daylight, Madelon had retreated into that corner of the carriage remotest from the Countess, who, for her part, showed some wisdom, perhaps, in making no attempt to resume the conversation.