assed, and
Madelon was once more safe. She awoke about midnight to the
confused consciousness of a strange room, perplexing her with
unfamiliar surroundings. A dim light burned before the
coloured picture of a saint that hung on the rough white-
washed wall, and by its uncertain gleams she could distinguish
the rude furniture, the patchwork quilt, the heavy rafters
that crossed above her head. The window stood wide open,
letting in the night scents of the flowers in the garden
below; she could see a space of dark, star-lit sky; and hear
the rustling of the trees, the whispering of the breeze among
the vine-leaves that clustered about the window. Her eyes
wandered round with vague bewilderment, the flickering light
and long shadows only seeming to confuse her more, as she
tried to reconcile her broken, shadowy memories with the
present realities, which seemed more dreamlike still.

The door opened, and Jeanne-Marie came in, holding another
candle, which she shaded with her hand, as she stood by the
bed for a moment, looking down upon Madelon.

"You are better," she said at last, setting down the candle on
the table behind her, and smoothing the pillow and coverlet.
Her voice was like her face, harsh and melancholy, but with a
tender, pathetic ring in it at times.

"Am I?" said Madelon. "Have I been ill again? Where is Soeur
Lucie? This is not the convent--where am I?"

"You are not at the convent now," answered Jeanne-Marie. "I am
taking care of you, and you must lie very still, and go to
sleep again when you have taken this."

Madelon drank off her medicine, but she was not satisfied, and
in a moment her brain was at work again.

"I can't make out where I am," she said, looking up at Jeanne-
Marie with the old wistful look in her eyes--"is it in an
hotel? --is papa coming? I thought I was at the convent with
Aunt Therese. Ah! do help me!"

"I will tell you nothing unless you lie still," said Jeanne-
Marie, as Madelon made a most futile attempt to raise herself
in bed. She considered a moment, and then said--"Don't you
remember, _ma petite?_ Your papa is dead, and you are not at the
convent any more, and need not go back there unless you like.
You are with me, Jeanne-Marie, at Le Trooz, and I will take
care of you till you are well. Now you are not to talk any
more."

Madelon lay silent for a minute. "Yes, I remember," she said
at last, slowly. "Papa is dead, and Monsieur Horace--he is not
here?" she cried