wish to escape from those walls; an appalling one that any one should make such an attempt, and succeed.  Soeur Lucie, held responsible for Madelon, was summoned before the Superior, questioned, cross-questioned, and, amid tears and sobs, could only repeat that she had left her charge as usual, the evening before; and that, in the morning, going to her cell, had discovered that she had vanished; how, or when, or whither, she could not imagine.  How she had escaped was indeed at first a mystery, which could not fail to rouse an eager curiosity in the sisters, and a not unpleasing excitement succeeded the first indignation, as, with one accord, they ran to examine Madelon’s room.  The window stood wide open, the branches of the climbing rose-trees were broken here and there, small footsteps could be traced on the flower-bed below.  It was all that was needed to make their supposition a certainty—­Madelon had run away.

This point settled, a calmer feeling began to prevail, and, as their first consternation subsided, the nuns began to reflect that after all worse things might have happened.  If it had been one of themselves indeed, that would have been a very different matter; such a sin, such a scandal could not even be thought of without horror.  But this little stray girl, who belonged to nobody, whom nobody had cared for, who had been a trouble ever since she had come, and who had been left a burthen and a responsibility on their hands—­why should they concern themselves so much about her flight?  No doubt she had made her escape to some friends she had known before she was brought to the convent, from no one knew where, two or three years ago.  The nuns were not more averse than other people to the drawing of convenient conclusions from insufficient premises, and this theory of Madelon’s having run away to her friends once started, every one was ready to add their mite of evidence in aid of its confirmation.  Some thought she had possibly started for England—­it was an Englishman who had brought her to the convent; others that she had friends in Paris—­it certainly was from Paris she had come; one suggested one thing, and one another, and in the meantime, though inquiries were made, the search was neither very energetic nor very determined.  When the evening came, it was generally felt to be rather a relief than otherwise that nothing had been heard of the small runaway.  What could they do with her if she came back?  No one felt disposed to put in a claim for her—­ least of all Soeur Lucie, whom she had brought into terrible disgrace, and who had yet been really fond of the child, and who for months after had a pang in her kind little heart whenever she thought of her wayward charge.  And so, when, two days later, a letter, with neither date nor signature, but bearing a Paris post-mark, arrived for the Superior, announcing that Mademoiselle Madeleine Linders was with friends, and that it was useless for any one to attempt to find her or reclaim her, for they had her in safe keeping, and would never consent to part with her, every one felt that the matter was arranged in the most satisfactory manner possible, and troubled themselves no more.