ce her illness
she had always gone to bed early, and Soeur Lucie never did
anything more than put her head in at the door, on her way to
her own room, which was in a different part of the building,
to see that all was dark and quiet; and if Madelon did not
speak, would go away at once, satisfied that she was asleep.

The chapel bell was still ringing as she went swiftly about
her few preparations, but it had ceased by the time the small
bundle was made up, and Madelon, in her hat and cloak, stood
ready to depart. She had laid all her plans in her own mind,
and knew exactly what she meant to do. She had decided that
she would walk to Chaudfontaine; she knew that she had only to
follow the highroad to get there, and the distance she thought
could not be very great, for she remembered having once walked
it with her father years ago. To be sure she had been very
tired, but she had been only a little girl then, and could do
much better now; and it appeared to her this would be simpler
and better than going into Liege to find the railway-station,
of whose situation she had no very distinct idea, and where
she might have to wait all night for a train, thus doubling
her chances of detection. She would rather walk the five or
six miles to Chaudfontaine during the night, and take the
first morning train to Pepinster and Spa; once there, there
could of course be no further difficulties.

She stood at the window now, ready to take the first step. She
had on the old black silk gown, in which Soeur Lucie's skilful
fingers had already made the necessary alterations, a black
cloth cloak, and a little round hat and veil. She had grown a
good deal during her illness, and the idea of height was aided
by the straight black skirt, which, reaching to her ankles,
gave her a quaint, old-fashioned air. She had her bundle on
her arm, but there was still a moment of irresolution, as she
looked for the last time round the little whitewashed room. It
appeared to her that she was going to do something so
dreadfully naughty. Our Madelon had not lived so long in a
convent atmosphere, without imbibing some of the convent ideas
and opinions, and she was aware that in the eyes of the nuns
there were few offences so heinous as that which she was going
to commit. "But I am not a nun yet," thinks the poor child,
clasping and unclasping her hands in her perplexity, and
struggling with the conscience-stricken sense of naughtiness,
which threatened at th