“To see me?” said Madelon, shrinking back again.

“Yes, don’t be frightened, it is only my aunt.  She wants to know you, and I think will be very fond of you.  Will you come with me?” And then, as they went along the passage and downstairs, he explained to her that he was not alone at the hotel, but that his aunt, Mrs. Treherne, was also there, and that he had been telling her what old friends he and Madelon were, and how unexpectedly they had met last night.

He opened the door of a sitting-room on the premier; a wood-fire was crackling, breakfast was on the table, and before the coffee-pot stood a lady dressed in black.

“Here is Madelon, Aunt Barbara,” said Graham; and Mrs. Treherne came forward, a tall, gracious, fair woman, with stately manners, and a beautiful sad face.

“My dear,” she said, taking Madelon’s hand, “Horace has been telling me about you, and from what he says, I think you and I must become better acquainted.  He tells me your name is Madeleine Linders.”

“Yes, Madame,” says Madelon, rather shyly, and glancing up at the beautiful face, which, with blue eyes and golden hair still undimmed, might have been that of some fair saint or Madonna, but for a certain chilling expression of cold sadness.

“I knew something of a Monsieur Linders once,” said Mrs. Treherne, “and I think he must have been your father, my dear.  Your mother was English, was she not?  Can you tell me what her name was before she married?”

“I—­I don’t know,” said Madelon; “she died when I was quite a baby.”

“Nearly thirteen years ago, that would be?  Yes, that is as I thought; but have you never heard her English name, never seen it written?  Have you nothing that once belonged to her?”

“Yes, Madame,” answered Madelon; “there is a box at the convent that was full of things, clothes, and some books.  There was a name written in them—­ah!  I cannot remember it—­it was English.”

“Moore?” asked Mrs. Treherne.  “Stay, I will write it.  Magdalen Moore—­was that it?”

“Yes,” said Madelon; “I think it was—­yes, I know it was.  I remember the letters now.  But I have something of hers here, too,” she added—­“a letter, that I found in the pocket of this dress—­this was mamma’s once, and it was in the trunk.  Shall I fetch it?—­it is upstairs.”

“Yes, I should like to see it, my dear.  You will wonder at all these questions, but, if I am not mistaken, your mother was a very dear friend of mine.”

Madelon left the room, and Mrs. Treherne, sitting down at the table, began to arrange her breakfast-cups.  Horace was standing with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing into the fire; he had been silent during this short interview, but as Madelon disappeared,—­

“Is she at all like her mother?” he inquired.

“She is like—­yes, certainly she is like; her eyes remind me of Magdalen’s—­and yet she is unlike, too.”