“And is there no other hotel you could go to?”

“I should not like to go to another,” said Madelon, “they would be all strange; I would rather go to Madame Bertrand, and I should not have to stay there long.”

“And then what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know—­I am not sure,” answered Madelon, rather embarrassed.  “I shall write to a friend I have—­Monsieur Horace, you know—­and he will tell me what to do.”

“And why do you not write to him at once, mon enfant?”

“I cannot,” was all Madelon’s answer, nor could Jeanne-Marie ever extract any further explanation on that point.  The next day Jeanne-Marie was missing from the restaurant for some hours; but she reappeared in the afternoon, and presently came out into the garden, where Madelon, seated in her favourite corner, was nursing a big cat, and sorting out herbs for drying.

“What a long time you have been away!” she said, as Jeanne-Marie came up to her.  “See, I have done all these; I think there are enough to last you all the winter.”

“Not quite,” answered the woman; “bur never mind them now.  Do you want to know where I have been?  I have been to Spa, and seen Madame Bertrand.”

“Have you?” cried Madelon; “did you tell her about me?  Was Mademoiselle Henriette there?”

“Mademoiselle Henriette is gone; she and her aunt had a grand quarrel, and she left, and so Madame Bertrand is alone again.  I told her all about you:  she said she was glad you had not gone back to the convent, and that you could go to her whenever you wished, for she would take care of you.  So as your work is done,” Jeanne-Marie added with a sigh, “there is nothing to keep you, and you may go as soon as you like.”

“May I” cried Madelon; “to-morrow, next day?  Ah!  Jeanne-Marie, how happy you have made me; you will know why, you will understand some day—­tell me when I shall go.”

“We will say the day after to-morrow.  I will get your things ready,” answered Jeanne-Marie.  She stood gazing at the child for a moment, as if she would have said something more, then turned away quickly and entered the house.

Madelon never thought of connecting Jeanne-Marie’s sad looks and ways with her own departure; and indeed, hardly noticed them, in her joy at having accomplished her task, and earned the longed-for thirty francs.  She did not understand nor suspect the woman’s passionate longing for her affection; no child can comprehend that strange, pathetic yearning that older people have for a child’s love—­a love so pure, and fresh, and ingenuous, that when it is freely and frankly given, it is surely the most flattering and precious in the world.  Madelon gave Jeanne-Marie all the love she had to bestow, but the first place in her heart was already taken; and perhaps the woman had discovered that it was so, and was half jealous of this unknown Monsieur Horace, whom she divined to be at the bottom of all Madelon’s plans and