, with startling eagerness.

"No, no," said Jeanne-Marie, "no one is here but me."

"Because you know," Madelon went on, "I cannot see him yet--I
cannot--it would not do to see him, you know, till--till--ah! you
do not know about that----" She stopped suddenly, and Jeanne-
Marie smoothed the pillow again with her rough, kindly hands.

"I know that you must go to sleep now, and that I shall not
say a word more to you to-night," she said; and then, without
heeding Madelon's further questions, she put out the light,
and sat silently by the bedside till the child was once more
asleep.

Madelon did not recover readily from this second attack. Even
when she was pronounced wholly out of danger, there were the
weariest days to be passed, relapses, weakness, languor.
Flowers bloomed and faded in the garden below, the scent of
the roses perfumed the air, the red-tipped vine-shoots growing
upwards narrowed the space of blue sky seen through the little
window, till the sun shone in softened by a screen of glowing
green leaves; and all through these lengthening summer days
our pale little Madelon lay on her sick bed, very still, and
patient, and uncomplaining, and so gentle and grateful to
Jeanne-Marie, who nursed and watched her unceasingly with her
harsh tenderness, that a passionate affection seized the hard,
lonely woman, for the forlorn little stranger who was so
dependent upon her, and who owed everything to her compassion
and care.

It was not long before a recollection of the past came back to
Madelon, sufficiently clear, until the moment of her jumping
out of the train at Le Trooz; after that she could remember
nothing distinctly, only a general sense of misery, and pain,
and terror. She asked Jeanne-Marie numberless questions, as to
how and where she had found her, and what she had said.

"How did you know that I had run away from the convent?" she
asked.

"You said so," answered Jeanne-Marie. "You were afraid that
your aunt would come and take you back."

"Aunt Therese is dead," said Madelon. "I remember it all very
well now. Did I tell you that? And did I tell you about papa,
too? How strange that I should not remember having said so
many things," she added, as the woman replied in the
affirmative.

"Not at all strange," replied Jeanne-Marie. "People often talk
like that when ill, and recollect nothing of it afterwards."

"Still, it is very odd," said Madelon, musing; and then she
added, suddenly, "Did I