“Ever your affectionate

“Madeleine Linders.”

It was at the end of a dull March day that Horace Graham, just arrived from Kent, made his way to his aunt’s house in Westminster.  He thought more of Madelon than of Mrs. Treherne, very likely, as the cab rattled along from the station.  There had never been much affection or sympathy between him and his aunt, although he had always been grateful to her, for her kindness to him as a boy; but she was not a person who inspired much warmth of feeling, and his sister’s little house in the village where he had been born, had always appeared to him more home-like than the great Cornwall house, where, as a lad, he had been expected to spend the greater part of his holidays.  But he was pleased with the idea of seeing his little Madelon again.  He had not needed letters to remind him of her during all these years; he had often thought of the child whom he had twice rescued in moments of desolation and peril, and who had been the heroine of such a romantic little episode—­thought of her and her doings with a sort of wonder sometimes, at her daring, her independence, her devotion—­and all for him!  When Graham thought of this, he felt very tender towards his foolish, rash, loving little Madelon; he felt so now, as he drove along to Westminster; he would not realize how much she must be altered; she came before him always as the little pale-faced girl, with short curly hair, in a shabby black silk frock.  It was a picture that, somehow, had made itself a sure resting-place in Graham’s heart.

“We did not expect you till the late train, sir; it is close upon dinner-time, and the ladies are upstairs in the drawing-room, I believe,” said the old butler who opened the door.

“Upstairs? in the drawing-room?” said Graham; “stop, I will find my way, Burchett, if you will look after my things.”

He ran upstairs; the house was strange to him, but a door stood open on the first landing, and going in, he found himself in a drawing-room, where the firelight glowed and flickered on picture-lined walls, and chintz-covered easy-chairs and sofas, on an open piano, on flower-stands filled with hyacinths and crocuses, on the windows looking out on the dark March night, and the leafless trees in the Park.  No one was there—­he saw that at a glance, as he looked round on the warm, firelit scene; but even as he ascertained the fact, some one appeared, coming through the curtains that hung over the folding-doors between the two drawing-rooms—­some one who gave a great start when she saw him, and then came forward blushing and confused.  “My aunt is upstairs,”—­she began, then stopped suddenly, glancing up at this stranger with the lean brown face, and long rough beard.  “Monsieur Horace!” she cried, springing forward.  He saw a tall, slim girl, all in soft flowing white, he saw two hands stretched out in joyous welcome, he saw two brown eyes shining with eager gladness and surprise; and all at once the old picture vanished from his mind, and he knew that this was Madelon.