s and helplessness, the child fell on
her knees and repeated an Ave Maria; the clouds drifted away,
and the low moon shone out between the trees with a pale glow,
that to our convent-taught Madelon seemed suddenly to
irradiate and transfigure the night with a glory not of earth.
Never in after years did she, in church or picture-gallery,
come across glorified Madonna, or saint floating in ethereal
spaces, without the memory returning to her of a silent road,
dark, rustling trees, a midnight sky swept with clouds; and
then a vision, as it were, of light and hope, giving new
strength and courage to one little terrified heart.

Madelon started on her journey with renewed energy, but she
hardly knew how she got through the miles that remained. The
moon rose higher and higher, the road bordered with poplar-
trees seemed to stretch before and behind into a never-ending
length, as in some wearying nightmare. Madelon, in her
straight, old-fashioned silk frock, her bundle on her arm,
marching steadily on, looked nothing but a queer little black
speck, casting a long narrow shadow, as she passed from one
moon-lit space to another. Ever afterwards, when she looked
back upon that night, the whole seemed like some perplexed,
struggling dream, of which the waking reality appeared less
vivid than the visions that had haunted her sleep. Perhaps she
would have broken down altogether but for the friendly hints
of the coming day that presently began to show themselves.
There came a moment when the night grew more silent, and the
breeze more chilly, and the surrounding world more dim and
fantastic in the uncertain moonlight; and then the shadows
began to waver and grow confused, long streaks of light showed
themselves in the east, the moon grew fainter in the
brightening sky, the birds began to chirp and twitter in every
tree and bush. The night had vanished, and the horizon was all
aglow with the ruddy light of a new day, when Madelon turned
the last bend of the road, and saw before her the white
cottages, the big hotel, the stream and hills of
Chaudfontaine.

CHAPTER XI.

The Countess G----.

No one was yet stirring in the little village, which, scarcely
emerged from the early twilight, lay still and silent, except
for the ceaseless, monotonous clang of the forges. Madelon was
tired out; she knew it was too early for any train to start
for Spa, and nothing better occurred to her than to sit down
and rest once more in a shel