leave me in this horrible place, he
would take me away. Oh! papa, papa, why did you die?" And
burying her face in the pillow, she began to sob and cry in
her weakness and despair.

But this last thought of her father had suggested a new set of
ideas and memories to Madelon, and by-and-by she stopped
crying, and began to think again, confusedly at first, but
presently with a more definite purpose gradually forming
itself in the darkness of her bewildered thoughts. Has she not
promised her father never to become a nun? Perhaps he had
thought of something like this happening, and that was why he
had made her promise, and of course she must keep her word.
But how is she to do that? wonders Madelon. If Monsieur Horace
were here, indeed, he might help her. Ah, if Monsieur Horace
was but here! Should she write to him, and tell him how
unhappy she was, and ask him to come and take her away? He had
given her his English address, and told her to be sure and let
him know, if she were in any trouble, or wanted any help. "But
then," thinks our foolish little Madelon, with the most
quixotic notions busy in her tired little brain, "I have not
done what I said I would, and he will think, perhaps, I want
to break my word." Alas, must that grand surprise that was to
have been prepared for him, all those fine schemes, and plans,
and projects, must they all fall to the ground? Was she never,
never to show him how much she loved him? And yet, if they
made her a nun, how could she do it all? He would never have
his fortune made then, though she had promised to do it, and
he would think she had forgotten him, and cared nothing about
him. So wearily did Madelon's mind revolve, dwelling most of
all on that promise made so long ago; and as she realized the
possibility of her never being able to fulfil it at all, she
became possessed with a feverish desire to get up that very
moment and set about it. If--if--ah, supposing she were to run
away--Aunt Therese is not here now, and she would not be afraid
of the other nuns finding her, she would hide herself too well
for that--supposing she were to run away, go to Spa, make the
fortune, and then write to Monsieur Horace? Would not that be
an idea?

When Soeur Lucie came in an hour later, to look after Madelon,
she found her fast asleep; the traces of tears were still on
her cheeks, and the pillow and bedclothes were all disarranged
and tossed about again, but she was lying quite quietly now.
So