he was going to die.  She had asked the question indeed, prompted by an instinctive terror that had seized her, but in fact she hardly knew what death meant, much less had she ever conceived of her father as dead, or imagined life without him.  Nevertheless, the sudden panic had left a nameless, unrecognized fear lurking somewhere, which gave an added intensity to her desire that he would wake up and speak to her once more; and sometimes the beating of her own heart seemed to deafen her, so that she could not hear the sound of his heavy irregular breathing, and then nothing but the dread of disturbing him could have prevented her from jumping up and going to him to make sure that he was still sleeping.  When would he awaken and look at her and speak to her again?  It appeared so long since she had heard his voice, and seen him smile at her; since he had wished her good-bye the evening before, she seemed to have lived through such long hours of unimagined terror and sorrow, and all without being able to turn to him for the sure help, for the loving protection and sympathy that had ever been ready for his little Madelon; and even now, he did not know how she was watching him, nor how she was longing to go to him and kiss him, to put her arms round his neck, and lay her soft little cheek caressingly against his.  This thought was the most grievous of all to Madelon just then, and the big tears came into her eyes again, and fell slowly one by one into her lap.

Graham, however, returning presently, somehow seemed to bring courage and consolation with him.  Madelon brightened up at once when he sat down by her and told her that he had asked Madame Lavaux to send them up some coffee, so that they might have it together there; and then, seeing the tears on her sad little face, he assured her in his kind way that her father would wake up presently and speak to her, and that, in the meantime, she need not sit quite so still, as she would not disturb him if she moved about quietly; and when, by-and-by, the cafe-au-lait arrived, they had their little meal together, whilst he told her in a low voice how her father had partially recovered his consciousness in the night and asked for her, but had been quite satisfied when he heard she had gone to bed, and had afterwards gone off to sleep as Madelon saw him now.

“By-the-by, Madelon,” Graham said presently, “tell me if you have any relations living in Paris, or any friends that you go and visit sometimes?”

“No,” says Madelon wondering, “I have no relations—­only papa.”

“No uncles, or aunts, or cousins?”

“No,” said Madelon again, “only Uncle Charles, who died, you know.”

“Ah, yes—­that was an English uncle; but your papa, has he no brothers or sisters in Paris, or anywhere else?”

“I never heard of any,” said Madelon, to whom this idea of possible relations seemed quite a new one.  “I never go to visit anyone.”

“Then you have no friends living in Paris—­no little companions, no ladies who come to see you?”