, the voices of
the nuns singing in the chapel. Picking up her bundle again,
she walked quickly away, along the little weed-grown path at
the back of the building, down the slope of the ploughed
field, up which she had come with Horace Graham two years and
a half ago. In thinking over her journey beforehand, she had
decided that it would be unwise to be walking along the
highroad whilst there was still any daylight left, and that
she would hide herself somewhere till it should be quite dark,
before setting out on her walk to Chaudfontaine. So, as soon
as she had reached the bottom of the unsheltered slope, she
looked about for a place of refuge. She found it in a clump of
trees and bushes growing by the roadside; and creeping in
amongst them, our Madelon's slim little figure was very well
concealed amongst the shadows from any passer-by. Eight
o'clock had struck as she left the convent. "I will wait till
nine," she resolved. "An hour will not be very long, and it
will be quite dark by that time." And so she did wait, with
the most determined impatient patience, through an hour that
seemed as if it would never end, whilst the darkness fell, and
passing footsteps became more and more rare. At last she heard
the shrill-toned convent clock strike nine, and coming out of
her place of concealment, she began her journey in earnest.

It was a dark, still, cloudy night. Above was the black mass
of the convent dimly defined against the sullen sky; she took
one glance at it before she bade it farewell; all was silent,
not a light shone from its windows, not a tree waved above the
surrounding walls. Behind her hung the great cloud of smoke
that ever darkens over the city of Liege. Here and there a
sudden glare illuminated the gloom of the surrounding hills;
it came from the furnaces of the great iron-foundries; before
her stretched the dusky road, between hedges and trees and
scattered houses, soon lost in the obscurity beyond. Not a
footstep could be heard, not a leaf rustled as Madelon and her
bundle emerged from their hiding-place; but the child felt no
alarm at the silence and solitude--the darkness and loneliness
of the road could not frighten her. Indeed she was naturally
of so courageous a temperament, and just then, through joy and
hope, of so brave a spirit, that it would have been only a
very real and present danger that could have alarmed her, and
she did not even dream if imaginary ones. She almost danced as
she we