“Indeed I have not, though you have grown into such a tall young lady.  But why have you not been here for such a long time?  Where is your papa?”

“Ah!  Madame,” says Madelon, her sense of utter discouragement gaining ground again, as the first flush of pleasure at the sight of her old friend died away, “I am very unhappy.  Papa died nearly three years ago, and I have been in a convent ever since, with Aunt Therese; but Aunt Therese is dead too; and they said that I was to be a nun, so I ran away.”

“To be a nun!—­a child like you?  How could they think of such a thing?” cried the good old woman.  “And you look tired out.  Come in here and tell me all about it.”

She drew her into the little parlour as she spoke.  Mademoiselle Henriette was sitting at the high desk in the window looking on the garden, and some one else was there too, fanning herself in one of the worsted-work chairs.  It was Madame la Comtesse, who had come there to settle her husband’s business with Madame Bertrand.  Both looked up as the landlady came into the room, half carrying, half dragging Madelon.

“Pauvre petite! pauvre petite!” she kept on saying, shaking and nodding her kind old head the while.

She made the child lie down on the sofa, pulled a cushion under her head, and then introduced her generally with “They wanted to make her a nun, and so she has run away from the convent.”

“Run away!” cried Mademoiselle Henriette, turning quite round.  “Well, I thought there was something very queer——­”

“Run away!” cried the Countess.  “Dear me, but that is very naughty!”

These little speeches, coming in the midst of Madame Bertrand’s effusive benevolence, 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.