rther and further into the wilderness, heedless
of danger, and hardships, and discomfort; almost heedless,
too, of home, and friends, and love--all that, he would have
time to think of at some future day, when he should find
himself obliged to return to England. Maria's suggestion of
the country partnership as the goal of his ambition and his
hopes, her picture of the new house at the end of the village,
rose before his mind, but in no such tempting light as before
hers. "She is a dear, good girl," he thought, "but she does
not understand. Well, I suppose it will come to that, or
something like that, at least; what better can one look
forward to? one cannot roam about the world for ever--at least,
I cannot, bound as I am; not that I repent that;" and then it
was that he sighed. Nevertheless he did roam about for three
years longer; and then his health giving way, he was obliged
to return to England, and arrived at his sister's house, a
bronzed, meagre, bearded traveller, with his youth gone for
ever, and years of life, and adventure, and toil separating
him from the lad who had first seen little Madelon at
Chaudfontaine.

He had not forgotten her; it would have been strange indeed if
he had, for Mrs. Treherne's letters, which followed him in his
wanderings with tolerable regularity, were apt to be full of
Madeleine; and in them would often be enclosed a sheet, on
which, in her cramped foreign handwriting, Madelon would have
recorded, for Monsieur Horace's benefit, the small experiences
of her every-day life.

"I am learning very hard," so these little effusions would
run; "and Aunt Barbara says that I advance in my studies, but
that I shall do better when I go to London, for I will have
masters then, and go to classes. I like Cornwall very much; I
have a garden of my own, but the flowers will not grow very
well--the gardener says the wind from the sea will kill them.
It seems to me there is always a wind here, and last week
there was a great storm, and many ships were wrecked. Aunt
Barbara said she was glad you were the other side of the
ocean, and so indeed was I. I never thought the wind and sea
could make so much noise; it is not here as at Nice with the
Mediterranean, which was almost always calm, and tranquil, and
blue like the sky. Here the sea is grey like the sky--that
makes a great difference. Will you soon write to me once more?
I read your letter to me over and over again. I like to hear
all about the