“No, my dear, I never knew your father,” said Mrs. Treherne, with a change in her voice, and relaxing her hold of the child.

“You forget, Madelon,” said Graham, coming to the rescue, “your father never went to England, so he did not make acquaintance with your mother’s friends.  But that is not the question now; my aunt wants to know if you will not come and live with her in England, and be her little girl?  That would be pleasanter than the convent, would it not?”

“Yes, thank you.  I should like to go and live in England very much,” said Madelon, her eyes wandering wistfully from Mrs. Treherne to Graham.  “And with you too, Monsieur Horace?” she added, quickly.

“Not with me, exactly,” he answered, taking her hand in his; “for I am going off to America in a month or two; and you know we agreed that you and I could not go about the world together; but I shall often hear of you, and from you, and be quite sure that you are happy; and that will be a great thing, will it not?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said again.  Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but they did not fall.  It was a very puzzling world in which she found herself, and events, which only yesterday she had thought to guide after her own fashion, had escaped quite beyond the control of her small hand.

Perhaps Mrs. Treherne saw how bewildered she was, for she drew her towards her again, and kissed her, and told her that she was her child now, and that she would take care of her, and love her for her mother’s sake.

“Now let us have some breakfast,” she said.  “After that we will see what we have to do, for I am going to leave Spa to-morrow.”

Late in the afternoon of the same day, Horace, who had been out since the morning, coming into the sitting-room, found Madelon there alone.  It was growing dark, and she was sitting in a big arm-chair by the fire, her eyes fixed on the crackling wood, her hands lying listlessly in her lap.  She hardly looked up, or stirred as Graham came in, and drew a chair to her side.

“Well, Madelon,” he said, cheerfully, “so we start for England to-morrow?”

“Yes,” she said; but there was no animation in her manner.

“Has my aunt told you?” he went on.  “We are going to sleep at Liege, so that she may go to the convent, and settle matters there finally, and let the nuns know they are not to expect you back again.”

“Yes, I know,” said Madelon.  “Monsieur Horace, do you think we might stop for just a little while—­for half-an-hour—­at Le Trooz, to see Jeanne-Marie?  She would not like me to go away without wishing her good-bye.”

“Of course we will.  It was Jeanne-Marie who took care of you when you were ill, was it not?  Tell me the whole story, Madelon.  What made you run away from Liege?”

“There was a fever in the convent; I caught it, and Aunt Therese died; and when I was getting well I heard the nuns talking about it, and saying I was to live in the convent always, and be made a nun—­and I could not, oh!  I could not—­ papa said I was never to be a nun, and it would have been so dreadful; and I could not have kept my promise to you, either.”