When Graham received it, he read it over twice, and sighed a little as he folded it up, and put it away.  He was relieved that Maria should take such a calm view of the subject, for he had felt his own letter to be somewhat egotistical, and yet—­ well, right or wrong, he could not help it; he could not give up his travels and researches just then.  The spirit of adventure was upon him, driving him, as it has driven many a man before, further and further into the wilderness, heedless of danger, and hardships, and discomfort; almost heedless, too, of home, and friends, and love—­all that, he would have time to think of at some future day, when he should find himself obliged to return to England.  Maria’s suggestion of the country partnership as the goal of his ambition and his hopes, her picture of the new house at the end of the village, rose before his mind, but in no such tempting light as before hers.  “She is a dear, good girl,” he thought, “but she does not understand.  Well, I suppose it will come to that, or something like that, at least; what better can one look forward to? one cannot roam about the world for ever—­at least, I cannot, bound as I am; not that I repent that;” and then it was that he sighed.  Nevertheless he did roam about for three years longer; and then his health giving way, he was obliged to return to England, and arrived at his sister’s house, a bronzed, meagre, bearded traveller, with his youth gone for ever, and years of life, and adventure, and toil separating him from the lad who had first seen little Madelon at Chaudfontaine.

He had not forgotten her; it would have been strange indeed if he had, for Mrs. Treherne’s letters, which followed him in his wanderings with tolerable regularity, were apt to be full of Madeleine; and in them would often be enclosed a sheet, on which, in her cramped foreign handwriting, Madelon would have recorded, for Monsieur Horace’s benefit, the small experiences of her every-day life.

“I am learning very hard,” so these little effusions would run; “and Aunt Barbara says that I advance in my studies, but that I shall do better when I go to London, for I will have masters then, and go to classes.  I like Cornwall very much; I have a garden of my own, but the flowers will not grow very well—­the gardener says the wind from the sea will kill them.  It seems to me there is always a wind here, and last week there was a great storm, and many ships were wrecked.  Aunt Barbara said she was glad you were the other side of the ocean, and so indeed was I. I never thought the wind and sea could make so much noise; it is not here as at Nice with the Mediterranean, which was almost always calm, and tranquil, and blue like the sky.  Here the sea is grey like the sky—­that makes a great difference.  Will you soon write to me once more?  I read your letter to me over and over again.  I like to hear all about the strange countries you are in, and I should like to see them too.  We have a book of travels which tells us all about South America, and I read it very often.  I send you one little primrose that I gathered to-day in my garden.”