h prompt energy,
"it is not difficult to know what you must do; you must go
back to the convent, of course. I never heard of anything so
improper as your running away."

"No, no, no," cried Madelon; "I cannot go back there--never;
they would kill me." She flung herself down on the sofa again,
while old Madame Bertrand tried to comfort her. No one should
make her go back; she was her _chere petite_, she would take
care of her--and was she not very hungry? would she like some
soup, or some cakes, or some bread and _confiture?_

Meanwhile the Countess was saying to Mademoiselle Henriette,
"This is a most extraordinary affair. If we do not take care,
your excellent aunt will be imposed upon; but I am going back
to Liege in an hour, and can perfectly well take the little
girl with me, and leave her at the convent."

"Indeed, Madame, we should be much indebted to you," said
mademoiselle Henriette, briskly; "it is evident that she has
no friends, and has come to my aunt simply because she was in
some way acquainted with her formerly. As you say, if we do
not take care we shall certainly have her on our hands; my
aunt is quite capable of it."

"Then that is easily settled," said the Countess; "I will take
charge of her. No thanks, Mademoiselle, I am only doing my
duty. I really do not know what young people of the present
day will come to. Does any one know what her name is, or
anything about her?"

Madame Bertrand, who had been vainly endeavouring to extract
from our desponding little Madelon any decided expression of
opinion on the subject of cakes or confitures, overheard this
last question. "Poor little one, I know her very well," she
said, lowering her voice confidentially, "her name is Linders;
her father was Monsieur Linders, a famous gambler--it was long
before you came here, Henriette, and Madame will not have
heard of him probably; but here in Spa he was well known, and
he used often to come to our hotel."

"Linders!" cried the Countess--"M. Linders--yes, certainly I
remember him perfectly, and the little girl too. M. Linders?--
of course, every one knew him."

"Ah! Madame, did you know my father?" said Madelon, raising
her head at these last words, and clasping her hands
imploringly; "be good to me then, I entreat of you; do not
speak of sending me back to the convent. I cannot go!"

There was something pitiful in the child's voice and gesture,
something pathetic in the little appeal to her father's
me