When Graham came back to the room, he found Madelon standing listlessly as he had left her; she had not moved.  “Well,” he said cheerily, “that is settled; now you are my property for the present; you shall sleep at my hotel to-night.”

“At your hotel?” she said, looking up at him.

“Yes, where I am staying.  Your friend here is not well.  I think I shall look after you better.  You do not mind coming with me?”

“No, no!” she cried, beginning to cling to him in her old way—­ “I will go anywhere with you.  Indeed I did not mean what I said, but I am very unhappy.”

“You are tired and wet,” answered Graham, “but we will soon set that to rights; you will see to-morrow, you will not be unhappy at all.  Old friends like you and me, Madelon, should not cry at seeing each other again; should they?”

Talking to her in his kind, cheerful way, they walked briskly along till they arrived at the hotel.  Madelon was tired out, and he at once ordered a room, fire, and supper for her, and handed her over to the care of a good-natured chambermaid.

“Good night, Madelon.  I will come and see after you to-morrow morning,” he said smiling, as he left her.

She looked up at him for a moment with a most pitiful, eager longing in her eyes; then suddenly seizing his hands in her wild excited way—­“Oh, Monsieur Horace, Monsieur Horace, if I could only tell you!” she cried; and then, as he left the room, and closed the door, she flung herself upon the floor in quite another passion of tears than that she had given way to in the Promenade a Sept Heures.

CHAPTER XVII.

The old Letter.

When Horace went to see after Madelon the next morning, he found her already up and dressed.  She opened her bedroom door in answer to his knock, and stood before him, her eyes cast down, her wavy hair all smooth and shining, even the old black silk frock arranged and neat—­a very different little Madelon from the passionate, despairing, weeping child of the evening before.

“Good morning, Madelon,” said Graham, taking her hand and looking at her with a smile and a gleam in his kind eyes; “how are you to-day?  Did you sleep well?”

“I am very well, Monsieur,” says Madelon, with her downcast eyes.  “I have been up a long time.  I have been thinking of what I shall do; I do not know, will you help me?”

“We will talk of that presently,” said Graham, “but first we must have some breakfast; come downstairs with me now.”

“Monsieur Horace,” said Madelon, drawing back, “please I wanted to tell you, I know I was very naughty last night, and I am very sorry;” and she looked up with her eyes full of tears.

“I don’t think we either of us quite knew what we were doing last night,” said Graham, squeezing her little hand in his; “let us agree to forget it, for the present at all events; I want you to come with me now; there is a lady downstairs who very much wishes to see you.”