ng. I think it must have been burnt."

"Why, that is your writing, Aunt Barbara!" said Graham, who
had come forward to inspect these relics.

"Yes, it is mine," said Mrs. Treherne. "It was written by me
many years ago."

She glanced at the letter as she spoke, then crushed it up
quickly in her hand, and with a sudden flush on her pale cheek
turned to Madelon.

"My dear," she said, putting one arm round the child's waist,
and caressing her hair with the other hand, "I knew you mother
very well; she was my cousin, and the very dearest friend I
ever had. I think you must come and live with me, and be my
child, as there is no one else who has any claim on you."

"Did you know mamma, Madame?" said Madelon. "And papa--did you
know him?"

"No, my dear, I never knew your father," said Mrs. Treherne,
with a change in her voice, and relaxing her hold of the
child.

"You forget, Madelon," said Graham, coming to the rescue,
"your father never went to England, so he did not make
acquaintance with your mother's friends. But that is not the
question now; my aunt wants to know if you will not come and
live with her in England, and be her little girl? That would
be pleasanter than the convent, would it not?"

"Yes, thank you. I should like to go and live in England very
much," said Madelon, her eyes wandering wistfully from Mrs.
Treherne to Graham. "And with you too, Monsieur Horace?" she
added, quickly.

"Not with me, exactly," he answered, taking her hand in his;
"for I am going off to America in a month or two; and you know
we agreed that you and I could not go about the world
together; but I shall often hear of you, and from you, and be
quite sure that you are happy; and that will be a great thing,
will it not?"

"Yes, thank you," she said again. Her eyes filled with sudden
tears, but they did not fall. It was a very puzzling world in
which she found herself, and events, which only yesterday she
had thought to guide after her own fashion, had escaped quite
beyond the control of her small hand.

Perhaps Mrs. Treherne saw how bewildered she was, for she drew
her towards her again, and kissed her, and told her that she
was her child now, and that she would take care of her, and
love her for her mother's sake.

"Now let us have some breakfast," she said. "After that we
will see what we have to do, for I am going to leave Spa to-
morrow."

Late in the afternoon of the same day, Horace, who had been
out since the