im; he had fancied her in
bed hours ago. He came up to where she was sitting, a most
sad, disconsolate little Madelon, all huddled together, her
hands clasped round her knees, her eyes shining through a
short wavy tangle of brown hair, all rough and disordered.

"Don't you think you would be better in bed?" says Horace, in
his kind, cheery voice.

"No," she answered abruptly; she was so miserable, so sore at
heart with the sudden disappointment, poor child, and Graham
had been the cause of it.

"But I am afraid you will be ill to-morrow if you sit there
all night," said Graham; "do you know what time it is?"

"No," she said again; and then, as he came a step nearer, she
gave a stamp on the floor, and turned her back on him. "Ah, do
leave me alone!" she cried, in a miserable little broken
voice, covering her face with her hand.

Graham saw that she was utterly wretched and worn out. He
could guess pretty well how it had all happened, and
reproached himself for not having foreseen and provided
against the chance of her waking up and finding herself alone;
and now he hardly knew what to do--to speak to her, or to urge
her any more just then, would only make matters worse. At last
he said quietly,--

"I have some writing to do, and I am going to bring it in
here; you will not mind that, I daresay?"

No answer; Horace left the room, but in a moment he returned,
sat down at the table and began to write.

A stillness which the rapid scratching of the pen upon the
paper, and the vague, ceaseless hum of the great city coming
through the open window, only seemed to render apparent;
occasionally the clang of a church clock, the sudden rattle of
wheels rising like hollow thunder and dying away into remote
distance, a far-off cry, and then a silence more profound by
contrast. Madelon, sitting in her dark corner, began to
recover herself; in truth, it was the greatest possible relief
to have Graham in the room with her, bringing light and the
warm sense of a living presence into the chill, unnatural
silence and darkness of death; and presently she began to
awake to a half-penitent consciousness that she had been
cross, rude, not at all raisonnable in fact; little by little
she shifted her position, and at length turned quite round to
look at M. le Docteur.

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 brow