e, 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?"

"No," answers Madelon, shaking her head, "we don't know anyone
in Paris, except some gentlemen who come to play with papa--
like Monsieur Legros, you know--only some are nicer than he is;
but I don't know the names of them all. At Wiesbaden I knew a
Russian princess, who used to ask me to go and see her at the
hotel--oh, yes, and a German Countess, and a great many people
that we met at the tables and at the balls, but I daresay I
shall never see them again; we meet so many people, you know."

"And you have no other friends?"

"Oh, yes," said Madelon, her eyes shining suddenly, "there was
the American artist, who lived in our house in Florence, and
the old German who taught me to sing and play the violin; I
was very fond of him, he was so good--so good."

"Who were they?" asked Graham.

Madelon explained, not in the least understanding the purport
of all these questions, but her explanation did not help
Graham much. In truth, he was revolving some anxious thoughts.
In accepting the charge of this sick man, he felt that he had
incurred a certain responsibility, not only towards M.
Linders, but towards his little girl, and any relations or
friends that he might have. It was on Madelon's account above
all that he felt unea