s, don't be frightened, it is only my aunt. She wants to
know you, and I think will be very fond of you. Will you come
with me?" And then, as they went along the passage and
downstairs, he explained to her that he was not alone at the
hotel, but that his aunt, Mrs. Treherne, was also there, and
that he had been telling her what old friends he and Madelon
were, and how unexpectedly they had met last night.

He opened the door of a sitting-room on the _premier_; a wood-
fire was crackling, breakfast was on the table, and before the
coffee-pot stood a lady dressed in black.

"Here is Madelon, Aunt Barbara," said Graham; and Mrs.
Treherne came forward, a tall, gracious, fair woman, with
stately manners, and a beautiful sad face.

"My dear," she said, taking Madelon's hand, "Horace has been
telling me about you, and from what he says, I think you and I
must become better acquainted. He tells me your name is
Madeleine Linders."

"Yes, Madame," says Madelon, rather shyly, and glancing up at
the beautiful face, which, with blue eyes and golden hair
still undimmed, might have been that of some fair saint or
Madonna, but for a certain chilling expression of cold
sadness.

"I knew something of a Monsieur Linders once," said Mrs.
Treherne, "and I think he must have been your father, my dear.
Your mother was English, was she not? Can you tell me what her
name was before she married?"

"I--I don't know," said Madelon; "she died when I was quite a
baby."

"Nearly thirteen years ago, that would be? Yes, that is as I
thought; but have you never heard her English name, never seen
it written? Have you nothing that once belonged to her?"

"Yes, Madame," answered Madelon; "there is a box at the
convent that was full of things, clothes, and some books.
There was a name written in them--ah! I cannot remember it--it
was English."

"Moore?" asked Mrs. Treherne. "Stay, I will write it. Magdalen
Moore--was that it?"

"Yes," said Madelon; "I think it was--yes, I know it was. I
remember the letters now. But I have something of hers here,
too," she added--"a letter, that I found in the pocket of this
dress--this was mamma's once, and it was in the trunk. Shall I
fetch it?--it is upstairs."

"Yes, I should like to see it, my dear. You will wonder at all
these questions, but, if I am not mistaken, your mother was a
very dear friend of mine."

Madelon left the room, and Mrs. Treherne, sitting down at the
table, began to arrange her