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."

"Not so very long," said Graham, "you know I am to come and
see you on my way back from Germany, and then if I can manage
it, we will have another walk together."

"That will be very nice," said Madelon; and then, after a
pause, she added, "Monsieur Horace, supposing Aunt Therese
says she will not have me, what shall I do then?"

This very same question had, as we know, presented itself to
Graham before now, and he had felt the full force of the
possible difficulty that had now occurred to our unthinking
Madelon for the first time.

"Indeed I do not know, Madelon," he answered, half laughing,
"but I don't think we need be afraid; y