So much they said, and then a silence ensued.  Madelon drank her tea, and Graham sat looking at her.  Yes, a change had certainly come over her—­this Madelon, who came and went so quietly, with a certain harmonious grace in every movement—­ this Madelon, who sometimes smiled, but rarely laughed, who spoke little, and then with an air of vague weariness and indifference—­this was not the little impetuous, warm-hearted Madelon he remembered, who had clung to him in her childish sorrow, who had turned from him in her childish anger, who in her very wilfulness, in her very abandonment to the passion of the moment, had been so winning and loveable.  It was not merely that she was not gay—­gaiety was an idea that he had never associated with Madelon; it had always been a sad little face that had come before him when he had thought of her; but in all her sadness, there had been an animation and spring, an eagerness and effusion in the child, that seemed wholly wanting in the girl.  It was as if a subtle shadow had crept over her, toning down every characteristic light to its own grey monotonous tint.

Madelon had not the smallest suspicion of what was passing in her companion’s mind.  During all these years, in whatever other respects she might have altered, the attitude of her heart towards him had never changed.  What he had always been to her, he was now; the time that had elapsed since they parted had but intensified and deepened her old feeling towards him—­that was all.  He had been in her thoughts day and night; in a thousand ways she had worked, she had striven, that he might find her improved when he came home, less ignorant, less unworthy, than the little girl he had parted with.  His return had been the one point to which all her hopes had been directed; and, poor child, with a little unconscious egotism, she took it for granted that just then she occupied almost as large a share in Graham’s mind as he did in hers.  He had always been so good, so kind to her, he must surely be glad to see her again, almost as glad as she was to see him.  She, on her side, was ready to go on just where they had left off; and yet now, when for the first time they were alone together, a sort of shyness had taken possession of her.

She was the first to break the silence, however.  “Why do you look at me so?” she said, setting her tea-cup down, and turning to Horace with a sudden smile and blush.

“I am trying to adjust my ideas,” he answered, smiling too; “I am trying to reconcile the little Madelon I used to know with this grand young lady I have found here.”

“Ah, you will never see that little Madelon again,” said the girl, shaking her head rather sorrowfully; “she is gone for ever.”

“How is that?” said Graham.  “You have grown tall, you wear long gowns, and plait up your hair, I see; but is that a reason——­”

“Ah, how can one survive one’s old life?” said Madelon, plaintively; “one ought not, ought one?  All is so changed with me, things are so different, the old days are so utterly gone—­ I try not to think of them any more; that is the best; and my old self is gone with them, I sometimes think—­and that is best too.”