“How strange that you should see us here again!” said Madelon.  “Did you know we were staying in the hotel, Monsieur?”

“Not at all,” answered Horace, smiling.  “I only arrived yesterday, and had no notion that I should find an old acquaintance to welcome me.”

“How fortunate that I was waiting here, and that you saw my name in that book,” said Madelon, evidently looking on the whole as a great event, brought about by a more remarkable combination of circumstances than everyday life as a rule afforded.  “Without that you would not have known who I was, perhaps?  Papa will be very glad to see you again.  Ah, how I wish he would come!” she added, all her anxieties suddenly revived.

“Do you always sit up for him when he is so late?” said Graham.  “Surely it would be wiser for you to go to bed.”

“That is just what I said to Mademoiselle an hour ago,” said a kind, cheery voice behind them, belonging to Madame Lavaux, the mistress of the hotel.  “Of what use, I say, is it for her to sit up waiting for her papa, who will not come any the sooner for that.”

“Ah!  Madame, I must wait,” said Madelon.  “Papa will come soon.”

“But, ma chere petite—­” began Madame.

“I must wait,” repeated Madelon, piteously; “I always sit up for him.”

Graham thought he could not do better than leave her in the hands of the landlady, and with a friendly good-night, and a promise to come and see her the next day, he went back to his own room.  In a few minutes, he heard Madame pass along the corridor and go upstairs to bed; but, though tired enough himself after a day of Paris sight-seeing, he could not make up his mind to do the same, when, on opening his door, he saw Madelon standing where he had left her.  He could not get rid of the thought of this lonely little watcher at the end of the passage, and taking up a book he began to read.  From time to time he looked out, but there was no change in the posture of affairs; through the half-open door opposite he could see the lights burning in the still empty room, and the small figure remained motionless at the moonlit window.  All sounds of life and movement were hushed in the hotel, all the clocks had long since struck midnight, and he was considering whether he should not go and speak to Madelon again, when he heard a faint cry, and then a rush of light feet along the passage and down the staircase.

“So he has come at last,” thought Graham, laying down his book with a sense of relief, not sorry to have his self-imposed vigil brought to an end.  He still sat listening, however; his door was ajar, and he thought he should hear the father and child come up together.  There was a moment’s silence as the sound of the footsteps died away, and then succeeded a quick opening and shutting of doors, the tread of hasty feet, a confusion of many voices speaking at once, a sudden clamour and stir breaking in on the stillness, and then suddenly subdued and hushed, as if to suit the prevailing quiet of the sleeping house.