ed. I will take care of you, but I want you to tell me
all about this. Do you mean you are all alone in Spa?"

"Yes, I am all alone; I came here three days ago. I had been
ill at Le Trooz, and a woman there--Jeanne-Marie--took care of
me; but as soon as I was well and had money enough, I came to
Spa, and went to the Hotel de Madrid. Papa and I used to go
there, and I knew Madame Bertrand who keeps it."

"So you slept there last night," said Horace, not a little
mystified at the story, but trying to elucidate some fact
sufficiently plain to act upon.

"Yes, last light, and before. I left my things there, and
meant to have gone back to-night, but I have no money now.
What is to be done?" That grand question of money, so
incomprehensible to children to whom all things seem to come
by nature, had long ago been faced by Madelon, but had never
before, perhaps, presented itself as a problem so incapable of
solution--as a question to be asked of such a very dreary,
black, voiceless world, from which no answer could reasonably
be expected. But, in truth, the answer was not far off.

"I will take care of all that," said Horace; "so now, come
with me. Stay, here is your hat; we must not go without that."

He arranged her disordered hair and crushed hat, and then,
taking her hand, led her back towards the town, Madelon very
subdued, and miserable, and cold, Horace greatly perplexed as
to the meaning of it all, but quite resolved not to lose sight
of his charge any more.

Arrived at the Hotel de Madrid, he left Madelon for a moment
in the shabby little coffee-room, while he asked to speak to
Madame Bertrand. Madame Bertrand, as we know, was ill and in
bed, but the maid brought down Madelon's bundle of things.
Graham asked her a few questions, but the girl evidently knew
nothing about the child. "Madame knew--she had dined in
Madame's private room the last two days," but she could not
tell anything more about her, and did not even know her name.

When Graham came back to the room, he found Madelon standing
listlessly as he had left her; she had not moved. "Well," he
said cheerily, "that is settled; now you are my property for
the present; you shall sleep at my hotel to-night."

"At your hotel?" she said, looking up at him.

"Yes, where I am staying. Your friend here is not well. I
think I shall look after you better. You do not mind coming
with me?"

"No, no!" she cried, beginning to cling to him in her old way--
"I w