Monsieur le Docteur was not looking at her, nor thinking of her apparently, for he never raised his eyes from his writing; the candle light shone on his rough brown hair, on his pleasant, clever face, with keen profile, well defined against a shadowy background.  Madelon sat watching him as though fascinated; there was something in the absorbed attention he was giving to his writing, which subdued and attracted her far more than any words he could have spoken to her, or notice he could have taken of her just then.  He had apparently forgotten her, this kind Monsieur le Docteur, who had evidently more important things to think about than her and her pettish little speeches; or she had perhaps made him angry, and he would not take any more notice of her at all?  There was a certain amount of probability in this last idea to the self-convicted little Madelon, that urged her to some sort of action; she sat still for a few moments longer, then got up and stole softly across the room to where Graham was sitting.

“I did not mean to be cross, Monsieur,” she said, in her little trembling voice, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, and tears in her eyes.  Perhaps Graham had forgotten her for the moment, for he gave a little start as he looked round.

“I am sure you did not,” he said quite earnestly, as he laid down his pen, “but you are so tired to-night, and unhappy too; are you not?”

“Ah, yes,” she answered, with a little sob, “I am very unhappy!”

He put his arm round her, as she stood beside him, and took one of her little hands in his; he was so sorry for the poor little girl, and yet he hardly knew what to say to console her.  She gave two or three more little sobs, rubbing her eyes with her other hand to keep back the tears; presently she looked up into his face, and said: 

“Do you really think I had better go to bed?”

“Indeed I do,” replied Horace, much relieved by the practical turn her thoughts were taking; “I am really afraid you will be ill to-morrow if you do not, and you know I must take care of you now.”

“I thought papa was all alone in here, and I was alone too,” said Madelon, “it was so dark and lonely in my room.”

“Well,” said Horace, “I am going to stay in here for a little while, and presently I will open your door, and then it will be almost as if you were in the same room; won’t that do?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Madelon, who indeed was so tired that she could hardly speak.  Graham lighted a candle for her, and opened the door leading into the inner room; she paused a moment as she took the light; and gazed up into the kind face looking down upon her; then she put her hand into his, and saying, “Good-night, Monsieur,” went into her own room.  Graham closed the door, and returned to his writing.  That was all that passed between them, but from that time Madelon’s feeling for Horace Graham approached adoration.