“It is not only that,” said Madelon, striving to check her sobs; “but just now, when we were sitting here, somehow I had forgotten all about where I was, and everything; and I thought I was out walking with papa, as I used to be, and I was planning what we would do to-morrow—­and then all at once I remembered—­and to-morrow I shall be in there, and I shall never see him again, and you will be gone too—­oh, papa, papa——­”

She was shaking all over with one of her sudden bursts of passionate crying.  What could he do to console her?  What could he say to comfort her?  Not much, perhaps, but then much was not needed; only a few words commonplace enough, I daresay—­but then, as we have said, Monsieur Horace’s voice and words always had a wonderful influence with our little Madelon.  How is it, indeed, that amidst a hundred tones that fret and jar on our ears, there is one kind voice that has power to calm and soothe us—­amid a hundred alien forms, one hand to which we cling for help and support?  Graham did not say much, and yet, as Madelon listened, her sobs grew less violent, her tears ceased, she began to control herself again.  “Listen,” said Graham, presently, “is not that singing that we hear?  I think it must be the nuns.”

Madelon raised her head and held her breath to listen; and sure enough, from within the convent came the sound of the voices of the nuns at their evening prayers.  She listened breathlessly, a change came over her face, a light into her eyes, and she tightened her grasp of Graham’s hand.  The melancholy voices rising and falling in unison, seemed a pathetic, melodious interpretation of the inarticulate harmonies of the evening hour.

“I like that,” said Madelon, relaxing her hold as they ceased at last; “do you think they sing like that every evening, Monsieur Horace?”

“I have no doubt of it,” he answered, “it is their evening service; see, that must be the chapel where the windows are lighted up.”

“Perhaps they will let me sing too,” said Madelon.  “Ah, I shall like that—­I love singing so much; do you think they will?”

“I think it very likely,” said Horace; “but now, Madelon, we must be going towards home; it is almost quite dark, and we have a long walk before us.”

Madelon was almost cheerful again now.  She so readily seized the brighter side of any prospect, that it was only when the dark side was too forcibly presented to her that she would consent to dwell on it; and now the sound of the nuns singing had, unconsciously to herself, idealised the life that had appeared so dull and cheerless when viewed in connexion with the grey twilight, and had changed its whole aspect.  When they reached the boulevards, where the lamps were all lighted now, and the people still walking up and down, it was she who proposed that they should sit down on one of the benches for a while.

“This is the last walk I shall have with you,” she said, “for such a long, long time.”