as put in front of her. Madelon, hardly thinking of
what she did, staked the stranger's money along with her own
on the red. It won. "Thank you, my child; it is the first time
I have won to-night," said the voice again, as a long hand
covered with rings swept up the money. Madelon turned round
quickly: behind her stood a woman with rouged cheeks, a low
evening dress half concealed by a black lace shawl, beads and
bracelets on her neck and arms--a common figure enough--there
were half-a-dozen more such in the room--and she took no more
notice of Madelon, but went on pricking her card without
speaking to her again. But to the child there came a quick
revulsion of feeling, that she could not have explained, as
she shrank away from her gaudily-attired neighbour. All at
once the game seemed somehow to have lost its interest and
excitement; the crowds, the heat, the light, suddenly
oppressed her; for the first time her heart gave way. She felt
scared, friendless, lonely. There came to her mind a thought
of the peaceful faces of the black-robed sisters, a sound as
of the tinkling bell ringing above the old cabbage-ground, a
breath sweet with the scent of fresh roses in Jeanne-Marie's
little garden; she had a momentary impulse to go, to fly
somewhere, anywhere--ah! but whither? Whither in all the wide
world could she go? Back to the convent to be made a nun? Back
to Jeanne-Marie with her promise unfulfilled? "I will keep my
promise, I will not be frightened," thinks the poor child,
bravely; "I will fancy that papa is in the room, and that he
will take care of me." And all these thoughts pass through he
head while the croupier is crying, "_Faites votre jeu,
Messieurs, faites votre jeu!_" and in, and on she goes again.

And while she is intent on making Monsieur Horace's fortune,
Monsieur Horace himself, not five hundred yards off, is
walking up and down the Place Royale, listening to the band,
and troubling his head not at all about fortune-making, but
very much about Madelon. On his recovery from his illness, he
had come to Spa to drink the waters, and had been there nearly
a month, during which time he had twice been over to Liege to
make inquiries about Madelon. His dismay had been great, when,
on his first visit to the convent, he had learnt that
Mademoiselle Linders was dead, that her little niece had
disappeared three or four months before, and that nothing had
been heard of her since, with the exception of the vague,