One evening, however, she was sitting as usual at the window in the old man’s room.  The sun had set, the short twilight was drawing to a close, church bells were ringing, down in the city yellow lights were gleaming in windows here and there, above, the great sky rounded upward from a faint glow on the horizon through imperceptible gradations of tint, to pure depths of transparent blue overhead, where stars were beginning to flash and tremble; within, in the gloom, the musician sat playing a sacred melody of Spohr’s, and as Madelon listened, some subtle affinity between this hour and the first one she had spent in the church touched her, and her eyes filled with sudden tears of painful ecstasy.  As the old German ceased, she went up to him with an impulse that admitted of no hesitation, and, as well as she could, told him all that was in her mind—­her dreams, her strange weird fancies, all that for the last few months had been haunting and oppressing her with its weight of mystery.  “Papa said I could not understand,” she said in conclusion, “but I think I could.  Will you not explain it to me?  Can you not tell me what it all means, and who—­who is God?”

The German had heard in silence till then, but at this last question he started from his listening attitude.

“Was—­was—­” he stammered, and suddenly rising—­“Ach, mein Gott!” he cried, with the familiar ejaculation, “to ask me!—­to ask me!”

He walked twice up and down the room, as stirred by some hidden emotion, his head bowed, his hands behind his back, murmuring to himself, and then stopped where Madelon was standing by the window.  She looked up, half trembling, into the rugged face bent over her.  He was her priest for the moment, standing as it were between earth and heaven—­her confessor, to whom she had revealed the poor little secrets of her heart; and she waited with a sort of awe for his answer.

“My child,” he said at length, looking down sadly enough into her eager, inquiring eyes, “when I was no older than thou art, I had a pious, gentle mother, at whose knee night and morning I said my prayers—­and believed.  If she were alive now, I would say, ’Go to her, and she will tell thee of all these things’—­ but do not speak of them to me.  Old Karl Wendler is neither good, nor wise, nor believing enough to instruct thee, an innocent child.”

He made this little speech very gently and solemnly; then turned away abruptly, took up his hat, and left the room without another word.  Madelon stood still for a minute baffled, repulsed, with a sort of bruised, sore feeling at her heart, and yet with a new sense of wondering pity, roused by something in his words and manner; then she too left the room, and though the darkness crept softly downstairs.