“Yes, I have not much time to lose, and if I decide to go at all, I shall start at once.  But it is very doubtful.”

They had reached the end of the field whilst talking; a heavy gate separated it from a lane beyond, and the children, unable to open it, had dispersed here and there along the bank, hunting for primroses.

“Shall we go on?” said Graham, “or would you like to turn back now?  You look tired.”

Madelon did not answer; what was the use of going on?  What did it matter?  Everything came to the same end at last—­a sense of utter discouragement and weariness had seized her, and she stood leaning against the gate, staring blankly down the road before her.  There were about twenty yards of shady, grassy lane, and then it was divided by a cross-road, with a cottage standing at one of the angles.  Graham, who was looking at Madelon, saw her face change suddenly.

“Why, there are——­” she began, and then stopped abruptly, colouring with confusion.

Graham looked; two figures had just appeared from one of the cross-roads, and walking slowly forward, had paused in front of the cottage; they were Mr. Morris the curate and Maria Leslie.  The clergyman stood with his back to Graham and Madelon, but they could see Maria with her handkerchief to her eyes, apparently weeping bitterly.  The curate was holding one of her hands in both his, and so they stood together for a moment, till he raised it to his lips.  Then she pulled it away vehemently, and burying her face completely in her handkerchief, hurried off in a direction opposite to that by which she had come.  Mr. Morris stood gazing after her for a moment, and then he also disappeared within the cottage.

This little scene passed so rapidly, that the two looking on had hardly time to realize that they were looking on, before it was all over.  There was a sort of pause.  Madelon gave one glance to Graham, and turned away—­then the children came running up with their primroses.  “Here are some for you, Uncle Horace; Cousin Madelon, please may I put some in your hat?”

Madelon took off her hat, and stooped down to help Madge arrange the flowers; she would not try to understand the meaning of what they had just witnessed, nor to interpret Monsieur Horace’s look.

“You are going home,” said Graham, unfastening the gate without looking at her; “then we part company here; I have to go further.”  And without another word he strode off, leaving the children disconcerted and rebellious at this abrupt termination of their walk.

“Madge,” said Madelon, caressing the little square perplexed face, “you won’t mind having a short walk to-day, will you?  Let us go home now, and we will play in the garden till your tea-time;” and wise little Madge agreed without further demur.

It was on the evening of the same day that Madelon, coming in from the garden where she had been wandering alone in the twilight, found Horace discussing his plans with Mrs. Vavasour, who was making tea.  She would have gone away again, but Graham called her back, and went on talking to his sister.