much illness about, and her services might be required
elsewhere. She stood talking to Graham for a few moments
before leaving.

"That poor little one," she said, "I should like to have one
look at her, just to see that she is quiet; I don't think she
half understood, or took in, what I said to her."

"Madame Lavaux told me she was in bed," Graham answered, "but
we will see if she is asleep. Poor child, she will understand
it all soon enough."

He opened the door gently between the two rooms, and they
looked in. All was dark and silent, but they could just
distinguish a little head laid on the white pillow, and could
hear Madelon's soft, regular breathing.

"That is all right," said Graham, "we will not go in and
disturb her; she will sleep till the morning, I daresay, for
she was up almost all last night." He closed the door again as
he spoke, and so they left her.

It was true that Madelon was asleep, but she was not exactly
in bed. When the Sister had come in to tell her of her
father's death, she had found her seated on the ground close
to the door, with her hands clasped round her knees, her head
leaning against the doorway; some one had bought in some
supper on a tray, but it stood on the table untouched, though
she had eaten nothing since the morning. She did not move when
Soeur Angelique came in, but she looked up with an expression
of dumb, helpless misery that went to the Sister's heart; she
sat down beside her on the floor, put her arm round her, and
told her the sad news in her gentle, quiet tones, which had
acquired a ring of sympathy and tenderness in a thousand
mournful scenes of sorrow and despair; but, as she had said to
Horace, she hardly knew whether the child understood her, or
took in what she was saying. Madelon did not speak nor cry;
she only sat gazing at the little Sister with a look of
perplexed terror dilating her brown eyes, that never changed
as Soeur Angelique went on with her pious, gentle maxims and
consolations, which fell blankly enough we may be sure on our
small Madelon's bewildered mind; and presently, hearing
herself called, and seeing indeed that she was making no
impression with her kind little speeches, the Sister rose to
go, saying as she did so, "You will go to bed now, _chere
petite_, will you not?" and then thinking that a familiar face
and voice might perhaps have a kindlier influence than her own
just then, she added, "and I will ask Madame Lavaux to come to
you