eur Lucie stood for a moment, looking down upon the child's
white face, that had grown so small and thin. Her hair had
been all cut off during her illness, and curled in soft brown
rings all over her head, as when she was a little child, and
indeed there was something most childlike in the peaceful
little face, which had a look of repose that it seldom wore
when the wistful brown eyes were open, with their expression
of always longing and seeking for something beyond their ken.
Somehow Soeur Lucie was touched with a sudden feeling of
unwonted tenderness for her little charge. "_Pauvre petite_,"
she murmured, gently raising one hand that hung over the side
of the bed, and smoothing back a stray lock of hair. Madelon
opened her eyes for a moment; "Monsieur Horace," she said, "I
have not forgotten, I--I will----" and then she turned away and
fell sound asleep again.

CHAPTER IX.

The Red Silk Purse.

It was about three weeks later, that Madelon was sitting one
evening at her bed-room window; it was open, and the breeze
blew in pleasantly, bringing with it the faint scent of early
roses and lingering violets. In the garden below, lengthening
shadows fell across the cherished centre square of grass, the
trees were all golden-green in the western sunlight; black-
veiled Sisters were walking about breaking the stillness with
their voices and laughter; along the convent wall the vines
were shooting and spreading their long tender sprays, and on
the opposite side a great westeria was shedding showers of
lilac blossoms with every breath of wind amongst the shrubs
and evergreens below.

Madelon, sitting forward on her chair, her chin propped on her
hands, her embroidery lying in her lap, saw and heeded none of
these things; her eyes were fixed dreamily on the sky, but her
thoughts were by no means dreamy, very intent rather upon one
idea which she was endeavouring to rescue from the region of
dreams and vagueness, and set before her with a distinctness
that should ensure a practical result. This idea, which indeed
was no new one, but simply that of running away from the
convent, which had first occurred to her three weeks before,
had presented itself with more assurance to her mind during
every day of her convalescence; and now that she was nearly
well again, it was fast becoming an unalterable resolution.
There were difficulties in the way--she was considering them
now--but she knew she should be able to overcome the