“Ah!” she cried, “I can imagine all that.  I believe in such places; they exist somewhere in the world, but one cannot get to them.”

“One can sometimes,” said Graham; “for perhaps Maria and I are going to this one, and then you had better become an invalid as fast as possible, Madelon, that Aunt Barbara may bring you there too.”

“And you are really going?” she asked, with a sad sick feeling at her heart.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we shall see what Maria says.  I am afraid she may not take the same view of it all that you do;” and Maria coming in at that moment, the conversation dropped.

After tea they were all sitting, as usual, in the drawing-room; a wood fire burnt and crackled on the low hearth, but the evening was warm, and the long windows were open to the lawn, where Graham was walking up and down, smoking a pipe.  Dr. Vavasour was dozing in an arm-chair, Mrs. Vavasour sat a the table stitching, Maria in the shade knitting cotton socks, and Madelon was leaning back in her chair, the lamplight falling on her brown hair and white dress, a piece of embroidery between her fingers, but her hands lying in her lap, and such sad thoughts in her poor little weary head.  So this was the end of it all?  Monsieur Horace was going to be married, and then live abroad—­yes, she was certain he would live abroad—­who would stay in England if they could help it?—­ and she would never, never see him again!  The one thought revolved in her brain with a sort of dull weariness, which prevented her seizing more than half its meaning, but which only required a touch to startle it into acutest pain.  No one spoke or moved, and this oppressive silence of a room full of people seemed to perplex her as with a sense of unreality, and was more distracting for the moment than would have been the confusion of a dozen tongues around her.

Presently, however, Graham came in from the garden, and walked straight up to her.

“Will you not sing something?” he said.

She rose at once without speaking or raising her eyes, and went to the piano.

“What shall I sing?” she said then, turning over her music.

“Anything—­it does not matter,” said Graham, who had followed her; “never mind your music—­sing the first thing that comes into your head.”

She considered a moment, and then began.

When Madelon sang, her hearers could not choose but listen; in other matters she had very sufficient abilities, but in singing she rose to genius.  Gifted by nature with a superb voice, an exceptional musical talent, these had been carefully cultivated during the last two or three years, and the result was an art that was no art, a noble and simple style, which gave an added intensity to her natural powers of expression, and forbade every suspicion of affectation.  As she sang now, the Doctor roused up from his doze, and Mrs. Vavasour dropped her work; only Maria Leslie, sitting in the shadow of the window-curtain, knitted on with increased assiduity.