“We generally go into the country on Sundays,” said Madelon.  “Papa never goes to church, I am sure, or he would have taken me.  I will ask him to let me go again—­I like it very much.”  It was at this moment that they turned into the street in which stood the hotel.  “Ah! there is papa,” cried Madelon, rushing forward as she saw him coming towards them, and springing into his arms.  He had returned to the hotel for a late dejeuner, and was in terrible dismay when Madelon, being sought for, was nowhere to be found.  One of the waiters said he had seen her run out of the courtyard, and M. Linders was just going out to look for her.

“Mon Dieu! Madelon,” he cried, “where, then, have you been?”

“I ran out, papa,” said Madelon, abashed.  “I am very sorry—­I will not do it again.  I lost myself, but Monsieur and Madame here showed me the way back.”

Her friendly guides stood watching the two for a moment, as, after a thousand thanks and acknowledgments, they entered the hotel together.

“It is singular,” said Madame; “he is handsome, and looks like a gentleman.  How can anyone bring up a little child like that in such ignorance?  She can have no mother, pauvre petite!”

“What an odd little girl, Maman,” cried Nanette, “never to have been to church before, and not to know why people go!”

“Chut, Nanette!” said her father.  “Thou also woudst have known nothing, unless some good friends had taught thee.”  And so these kindly people went their way.

Madelon, meanwhile, was relating all her adventures to her father.  He was too rejoiced at having found her again to scold her for running away; but he was greatly put out, nevertheless, as he listened to her little history.  Here, then, was en emergency, such as he had dimly foreseen, and done much to avoid, which yet had come upon him unawares, without fault of his, and which he was quite unprepared to meet.  He did not, indeed, fully understand its importance, nor all that was passing in his child’s mind; but he did perceive that she had caught a glimpse through doors he had vainly tried to keep closed to her, and that that one glance had so aroused her curiosity and interest, that it would be less easy than usual to satisfy her.

“Why do you never go to church, papa?” she was asking.  “Why do you not take me?  It was so beautiful, and there were such numbers of people.  Why do we not go?”

“I don’t care about it myself,” he answered, at last, “but you shall go again some day, ma petite, if you like it so much.”

“May I?” said Madelon.  “And will you take me, papa?  What makes so many people go?  Madame said they went every Sunday and fete day.”

“I suppose they like it,” answered M. Linders.  “Some people go every day, and all day long—­nuns, for instance, who have nothing else to do.”

“It is, then, when people have nothing else to do that they go?” asked Madelon, misunderstanding him, with much simplicity.