invalided to England. While Madelon had been slowly recovering
from her fever in her little out-of-the-world refuge at Le
Trooz, Graham had been gaining health and strength in a
pleasant English home, with a sister to nurse and pet him,
nephews and nieces to make much of him, and the rosiest cheeks
and bluest eyes in the world to fall in love with, as he lay
idly on the lawn through the summer days. It was at the house
of his sister, who was married to a country doctor in Kent,
that this double process of love-making and convalescence went
on, with the greatest success and satisfaction to all parties;
and it was Miss Maria Leslie, the ward of his brother-in-law,
Dr. Vavasour, who was the owner of those bluest eyes and
rosiest cheeks.

Meanwhile Madelon, stitching, stitching away at her work,
thought vaguely of Monsieur Horace as being still in that far-
off country from which he had last written to her, and
wondered a little how soon a letter written to the English
address he had given her would reach him. What would he say
and think when he received it? And when, ah! when would she be
able to write it? She worked on steadily, and yet it was
already September when the last stitch was put in, and she
could give the work to Jeanne-Marie. A few days afterwards the
woman put thirty francs into her hands.

"There is your money," she said; "now what are you going to do
with it?"

"I am going away," answered Madelon.

"Yes?" said Jeanne-Marie, without any apparent emotion, "and
where are you going?"

"I am going to Spa. Ah! Jeanne-Marie, do not ask me what I am
going to do; it is my secret, I cannot tell any one, but you
shall know some day."

Jeanne-Marie was silent for a moment, then, "Look here, _ma
petite_," she said; "I don't want to know what you are going to
do; it is no concern of mine, and I cannot keep you if you
want to go away; but who are you going to in Spa? I cannot let
you go off without knowing where you are, and whether you are
safe. You might have the fever again, or some one might try to
take you back to the convent, and I should know nothing about
it. Where are you going? Have you any friends at Spa?"

"There is only Madame Bertrand at the Hotel de Madrid,"
replied Madelon, rather disconsolately; "I would not mind
going to her again, she is so kind; she wanted me to stay with
her the last time I was there--but then there is Mademoiselle
Henriette--it was she who wished to send me back to the