These letters written, and M. Linders’ few papers, which were of little interest or importance, examined, Graham had exhausted his sources of possible information, and could only trust no obstacle would intervene to prevent his little charge being at once received at the convent, and placed under her aunt’s guardianship and care.  So, with as little delay as possible, they had packed up, and set off on their journey:  and now, as Madelon stands at the window of the little hotel salon, Paris lies many a league behind them, beyond the great northern levels, across which they have been speeding for so many hours.  And behind her, too, already separated from her by a distance more impassable than that which can be counted by leagues, lies Madelon’s old life, to which many and many a time, with passionate outcries, perhaps, with tender unspeakable yearnings, she will look back across an ever-widening space, only to see it recede more hopelessly into a remoter past.

She does not understand all this yet, however, with the new life scarcely a week old.  She is thinking of Monsieur Horace, as she stands there looking out at the sunset sky; they have just dined, and behind her a deft waiter is removing the cloth; and in a minute she turns round gladly, as Monsieur Horace himself comes into the room.

“Shall we take a walk, Madelon?” he says, “or are you too tired?”

“I am not at all tired,” Madelon answered.  “I should like to have a walk; may we go and look at the convent where Aunt Therese lives?  I should like to see it.”

“That is a good idea,” said Horace.  “I will inquire whereabouts it is, and we will go and have a look at it.”

The convent, they were told, stood on the outskirts of Liege, about a quarter of a mile outside the town, and a little off the great highroad leading through Chaudfontaine and its adjacent villages to Pepinster and Spa.  It was at some distance from the hotel; but Madelon repeated that she was not at all tired, and would like a long walk, so they set off together in the mild September evening.  To their left lay the old town with its picturesque churches, its quaint old Bishop’s palace, its tall chimneys and busy quays, and wharves, and warehouses, stretching along the river banks; but all this they left on one side as they went along the wide, tree-planted boulevards, where carriages were rolling, and lamps lighting, and people walking about in the ruddy glow; and presently these too were passed by, and they came out on the dusty high-road.  A few scattered houses were still to their right hand and to their left; but the city, with its cloud of smoke, its kindling lights and ceaseless movement, was behind them now.  Of all its restless stir no sound reached them through the soft twilight but the chime of bells from its many towers, which rang out the evening angelus just as they saw, standing on the summit of a gentle slope to their left, a building with steep grey slate roofs and belfry, rising above low white surrounding walls, and knew that they had reached their destination.