At last she grew a little quieter, and then he spoke to her in a tone of authority:—­

“You must get up, Madelon; you will get quite wet if you stay here.”

He took hold of her hand, and held it firmly when she tried to loosen it, and at last she got up slowly.  As she rose, she became conscious of the wet and cold, and was completely sobered as she stood shivering at Horace’s side.

“My poor little Madelon!” he said, in the kind voice she remembered from old times.  “You are quite wet and so cold, we must not stay here; tell me where you are going?”

“I don’t know,” said Madelon, beginning to cry again.  Only an hour ago she had been so full of joy and hope, with such a bright future before her; and now the rain and wind were beating in her face, above her the black sky, darkness all around; where indeed was she going?

“But you have some friends here?” said Horace—­“you are not staying here all alone?”

“Yes, I am all alone,” said Madelon, sobbing.  “Oh! what shall I do?—­what shall I do?”

“Don’t cry so, Madelon,” said Graham, “my poor child, don’t be frightened.  I will take care of you, but I want you to tell me all about this.  Do you mean you are all alone in Spa?”

“Yes, I am all alone; I came here three days ago.  I had been ill at Le Trooz, and a woman there—­Jeanne-Marie—­took care of me; but as soon as I was well and had money enough, I came to Spa, and went to the Hotel de Madrid.  Papa and I used to go there, and I knew Madame Bertrand who keeps it.”

“So you slept there last night,” said Horace, not a little mystified at the story, but trying to elucidate some fact sufficiently plain to act upon.

“Yes, last light, and before.  I left my things there, and meant to have gone back to-night, but I have no money now.  What is to be done?” That grand question of money, so incomprehensible to children to whom all things seem to come by nature, had long ago been faced by Madelon, but had never before, perhaps, presented itself as a problem so incapable of solution—­as a question to be asked of such a very dreary, black, voiceless world, from which no answer could reasonably be expected.  But, in truth, the answer was not far off.

“I will take care of all that,” said Horace; “so now, come with me.  Stay, here is your hat; we must not go without that.”

He arranged her disordered hair and crushed hat, and then, taking her hand, led her back towards the town, Madelon very subdued, and miserable, and cold, Horace greatly perplexed as to the meaning of it all, but quite resolved not to lose sight of his charge any more.

Arrived at the Hotel de Madrid, he left Madelon for a moment in the shabby little coffee-room, while he asked to speak to Madame Bertrand.  Madame Bertrand, as we know, was ill and in bed, but the maid brought down Madelon’s bundle of things.  Graham asked her a few questions, but the girl evidently knew nothing about the child.  “Madame knew—­she had dined in Madame’s private room the last two days,” but she could not tell anything more about her, and did not even know her name.