ll undeveloped character lay
latent an integrity and strength of will, a tenacity of
purpose, which were already beginning to work, unconsciously,
and by instinct as it were, for she could assuredly never have
learnt from her father, who regarded honesty and integrity as
merely inconvenient weaknesses incidental to human nature
under certain conditions. But to Madelon they were precisely
those sacred truths which lie hidden in our inmost hearts, and
which, when once revealed to us, we cling to as our most
steadfast law, and which to deny were to denounce our best and
purest self. Not to every one are the same truths revealed
with the same force; for the most part it is only through a
searching experience that we can come clearly to understand
one or another, which is to our neighbour as his most unerring
instinct; and such must have been this integrity of purpose in
Madelon, who, in affirming that she always kept her promises,
had uttered no idle vaunt, nor even the proved result of such
experience as her short life had afforded, but had simply
given expression to what she instinctively knew to be the
strongest truth in her nature.

That evening, after Madelon had gone up to bed, she stood long
at her open window looking out into the night. Her bedroom was
high up in the hotel, and overlooked a large public place;
just opposite was a big, lighted theatre, and from where she
stood she could catch the sound of the music, and could fancy
the bright interior, the gay dresses, the balcony, the great
chandeliers, the actors, the stage. It was her farewell for
many a long day to the scenes and pleasures of her past life,
but she did not know it. The sound of the music stirred within
her a sort of vague excitement, an indefinite longing, and she
was busy peopling the future--a child's future, it is true, not
extending beyond two or three weeks, but yet sufficient to
make her forget the past for the moment. She must have stood
there for nearly an hour; any one looking up might have
wondered to see the little head popped out of window, the
little figure so still and motionless. Up above the stars
twinkled unheeded; down below other stars seemed to be dancing
across the wide Place, but they were only the lamps of the
carriages as they drove to and fro from the theatre. And
yonder, on the outskirts of this busy town, with its lights
and crowds and gay bustle, sleeping under the silent, slow-
moving constellations, surrounded b