not be able to go
yet."

"No," said Madelon, sadly, "I shall not be able to go yet."

She did not remark Jeanne-Marie's sad voice, nor the unwonted
tears that filled her eyes; the woman felt half heart-broken
at what she imagined to be her charge's indifference. Madelon
was not indifferent or ungrateful, but her mind was filled
just then with her one idea, and she had no room for any
other; it wrought in her what seemed a supreme selfishness,
and yet she had no thought of self in the matter.

She lay quite still for a few minutes, her pale little face
glowing with her renewed hopes. Then she said,--

"Jeanne-Marie, would you mind putting out my things where I
can see them?--my frock and all. Then I shall believe I am to
get up."

Jeanne-Marie acquiesced silently. Madelon's scanty wardrobe
had all been mended and put in order, and now it was spread
out before her; but somehow the sight of the old black silk
frock brought a sudden chill with it; the very last time she
had put it on had been on the morning of the day she had
escaped from the convent. Since then what had she not gone
through! what disappointment, terror, sickness nearly to
death! Might she not indeed have been dead by this time, or a
prisoner for ever within the convent walls, had it not been
for Jeanne-Marie? Her eyes filled with tears at the thought.
She longed to tell Jeanne-Marie once more how much she loved
her; but the woman had left the room, and Madelon could only
lie patiently, and think of all she was going to do, when she
should be well again.

CHAPTER XV.

A Summer with Jeanne-Marie.

At the back of Jeanne-Marie's house lay the garden, sheltered
by the steep rocky hill that rose just beyond. All through the
long summer evenings the voices of the men, as they sat
smoking and drinking in its vine-covered arbours, might be
heard; but during the day it was comparatively deserted, and
Jeanne-Marie had no difficulty in finding a quiet, shady
corner where Madelon might sit as long as she pleased without
being disturbed. An outside wooden staircase led from her room
to the garden below, so that she could come and go without
passing through the lower rooms of the house; and we may be
sure that it was considered a golden day by both her and
Jeanne-Marie, when she first made this little expedition. The
child, still almost too weak to stand or walk, was carried by
her strong, kind hostess down the flight of steps, and once
more found her