“What was this promise, Madelon?  I can’t remember your making me one, or anything about it.”

“Yes, don’t you know?  That evening at Liege, the night before I went into the convent, when we were taking a walk.  You said you wanted to make your fortune, and I said I would do it for you.  I knew how, and I thought you did not.  I meant to do it at once, but I could not, and I was afraid you would think I had forgotten my promise, and would want the money, so I got out of the window and came to Spa.  But I lost all my money the first time I went to the tables, and there was a lady who wanted to take me back to the convent; but she went to sleep in the train, and I got out at Le Trooz.  I don’t remember much after that, for the fever came on again; but Jeanne-Marie, who keeps a restaurant in the village, found me in the church, she says, and took me home, and nursed me till I was well.”

“And how long ago was all this?”

“It was last May that I ran away from the convent, and I was with Jeanne-Marie all the summer; but as soon as I was well again, and had enough money, I came back here—­that was four days ago; and last night I had the money, and to-day I should have written to you to tell you that I had kept my promise, and made your fortune.”

“And so it was all for me,” said Graham, with a sudden pang of tenderness and remorse.  “My poor little Madelon, you must have thought me very cruel and unkind last night.”

“Never mind,” she answered, “you did not understand; I thought you knew I had promised;” but she turned away her head as she spoke, and Graham saw that she was crying.

“Indeed I don’t remember anything about it,” he said; “why, my poor child, I should never have thought of such a thing.  Well, never mind, Madelon, you shall come to England with us.  Do you know you are a sort of cousin of mine?”

“Am I?” she answered, “did you know mamma as well as Mrs. ——­ as Madame votre Tante?”

“Well, no; the fact is, I never even heard her married name, though I knew we had some relations named Moore, for she was my mother’s cousin, also.  But she went abroad and married when I was quite a child, and died a few years afterwards, and that is how it happened that I never heard of, or saw her.”

“Ah! well, you knew papa,” said Madelon; and then there was silence between them for a minute, till a flame leaping up showed Madelon’s face all tearful and woe-begone.

“You are not happy, Madelon,” said Graham.  “What is it?  Can I help you in any way?  Is there anything I can do for you?”

She fairly burst into sobs as he spoke.

“Monsieur Horace,” she answered, “I—­I wanted to make your fortune; I had looked forward to it for such a long time, and I was so happy when I had done it, and I thought you would be so pleased and glad, too, and now it is all at an end——­”

How was Graham to console her?  How explain it all to her?  “Listen to me, Madelon,” he said at last; “I think you were a dear little girl to have such a kind thought for me, and I don’t know how to thank you enough for it; but it was all a mistake, and you must not fret about it now.  I don’t think I care so very much about having a fortune; and anyhow, I like working hard and getting money that way for myself.”