“What are you going to do?” cried Madelon, struck with sudden fear, as he swept it up in his hand.

“Take it back, of course,” he answered, striding into the next room.

“Ah! you shall not!” she cried passionately, running after him, and seizing his hand; “it is mine, it is mine, you shall not have it!”

“Hush, Madelon,” he said, turning round sharply, “don’t make a disturbance here.”

She made no answer, but clung with her whole weight to his arm as he approached the table.  She dragged his hand back, she held it tight between hers; her face was quite pale, her teeth set in her childish passion.

“Madelon, let go!” said Graham; “do you hear what I say?  Let go!”

“Give me my money back!” she cried, in a passionate whisper; “you have no right to take it; it is my own.”

“Let go,” he repeated, freeing his hand as he spoke.  She seized it again, but it was too late; he had placed the money on the table, and with the other hand pushed it into the middle.  A horrible pause, while Madelon clung tighter and tighter, watching breathlessly till she saw the croupier rake in the whole.  All was lost, then; she flung Horace’s hand away, and rushed out of the room.  “Madelon!” he cried, and followed her.  Down the lighted staircase, out into the lighted street, he could see the swift little figure darting along the Place Royale, where he had been walking not half an hour ago, all quiet and dark now; the music gone, the people dispersed, the rain falling heavily.  Still she ran on, into the avenue of the Promenade a Sept Heures.  It was darker still there, only a rare lamp slanting here and there a long gleam of light across the wet path.  Horace began to be afraid that he should lose her altogether, but she suddenly stumbled and fell, and when he came up to her, she was sitting all in a heap on the ground at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands, her frame shaking with sobs.

“Madelon,” said Horace, stooping down, and trying to take her hands; “my little Madelon, my poor little child!”

She jumped up when she heard his voice, and started away from him.

“Ne me touchez pas, je vous le defends,” she cried, “ne me touchez pas, je vous deteste—­vous etes un cruel—­un perfide!”

She began to sob again, and dropped down once more upon the ground, crouched upon the damp earth, strewn with dead fallen leaves.  Her hat had fallen off, and the rain came down upon her uncovered head, wetting the short hair as it was blown about by the wind, drenching her thin little cloak and old black silk frock.  A very pitiful sight as she sat there, a desolate, homeless child, on this dark, wet autumn night, deaf in her excess of childish rage to Horace’s words, shaking him off with wilful, passionate gestures whenever he touched her—­a very perplexing sight to the young man, who stood and watched her, uncertain what to say or do next.