known how recently the child had recovered from a long illness, nothing, I think, would have induced her to let her go; but she only supposed she was over-tired with her strange night journey; and, in fact, the wine and the rest together had so far revived Madelon that she appeared quite capable of walking down to the station with the Countess.  Madame Bertrand gave her great hug as she wished her good-bye, and was perhaps a little aggrieved at the passive way in which Madelon received it.

“If ever you want help, come back to me—­will you not, mon enfant?—­and I will help you, if I can.”

“Yes,” said Madelon; “but they will not let me run away again; will they?”

“Let you run away, ma petite?”

“Yes—­Aunt Therese, you know.  She won’t let me do it again.”

“Your aunt?  You told me she was dead;” cried Madame.

“Yes, so she is,” said Madelon.  “I was forgetting, I think.  Good-bye, Madame Bertrand.  You will let me stay next time, will you not?  But I must go now?” And she followed the Countess out of the house without another word.

Madame la Comtesse, having got her own way, was kind enough to the child who had so unwittingly strayed across her path.  When they reached the station she gave her her ticket, made her sit down in the waiting-room, and even offered her refreshment in the interval before the train started.  Indeed, we should err if we attributed to the Countess, whom this little episode in our Madelon’s history has brought for the second, and we may trust for the last, time before us—­we should err, I say, in attributing to her any feeling of ill-will towards Madelon, or any special interest in her conduct or fate.  Neither need it be imagined that she was actuated by any large views of duty towards the world in general:  she was not at all benevolent, but neither was she particularly ill-natured; she was merely a shallow-minded, frivolous woman, who, having long since lowered her standard of perfection to suit her own attainments, saw fit to measure every one else by her own narrow ideal, and to set them right where they proved themselves wanting—­a convenient process, which enabled her to satisfy her vague sense of duty, and right and wrong, without any reference to her own possible shortcomings.  In capturing our little stray Madelon, and taking her back to the convent, she felt she was doing a deed that would afford her matter for self-congratulation for days to come; and she was gracious and affable accordingly, speaking to Madelon in a tone of condescending good-nature, which was quite lost upon the child, who was beyond caring for kindness or unkindness just then.  She was only conscious of some terrible burden, which she could not define nor reason upon, but which seemed to oppress and weigh her down, making her incapable of thought, or speech, or motion.  When they got into the railway-carriage she could only lean back in the corner, with a general sense that something dreadful had happened, or was going to happen; but that her head ached too much, and felt too confused, for her to remember what it was all about.