lour at the end, when she ran right up against some
one who was coming towards her--a stout old lady, with grey
hair, and a little grey moustache, a very gay shawl, and a
large bonnet, with primrose-coloured ribbons. Madelon
recognised her in an instant. "Oh! Madame Bertrand!" she
cried, flinging her arms round her, "don't you know me? I am
Madeleine Linders."

Madame Bertrand stepped back, a little overwhelmed by this
vehement salutation, and then,--

"Madeleine Linders?" she cried. "What! little Mademoiselle
Madelon, who used to come here so often with her papa?"

"Yes, I am little Madelon," she answered; and indeed the sight
of the kind old face, the sound of the cheery, familiar voice,
made her feel quite a small Madelon again. "You have not
forgotten me, have you, Madame Bertrand?"

"Indeed I have not, though you have grown into such a tall
young lady. But why have you not been here for such a long
time? Where is your papa?"

"Ah! Madame," says Madelon, her sense of utter discouragement
gaining ground again, as the first flush of pleasure at the
sight of her old friend died away, "I am very unhappy. Papa
died nearly three years ago, and I have been in a convent ever
since, with Aunt Therese; but Aunt Therese is dead too; and
they said that I was to be a nun, so I ran away."

"To be a nun!--a child like you? How could they think of such a
thing?" cried the good old woman. "And you look tired out.
Come in here and tell me all about it."

She drew her into the little parlour as she spoke.
Mademoiselle Henriette was sitting at the high desk in the
window looking on the garden, and some one else was there too,
fanning herself in one of the worsted-work chairs. It was
Madame la Comtesse, who had come there to settle her husband's
business with Madame Bertrand. Both looked up as the landlady
came into the room, half carrying, half dragging Madelon.

"_Pauvre petite! pauvre petite!_" she kept on saying, shaking
and nodding her kind old head the while.

She made the child lie down on the sofa, pulled a cushion
under her head, and then introduced her generally with "They
wanted to make her a nun, and so she has run away from the
convent."

"Run away!" cried Mademoiselle Henriette, turning quite round.
"Well, I thought there was something very queer----"

"Run away!" cried the Countess. "Dear me, but that is very
naughty!"

These little speeches, coming in the midst of Madame
Bertrand's effusive benevolenc