ntry you are exploring. We share your
letters, my dear Horace, and follow you in all your
wanderings, with the greatest interest."

One more letter.

"March 1st, 186--.

"My dear Monsieur Horace,

"Aunt Barbara bids me write and welcome you back to England.
We look forward to seeing you very much; but she says, if you
can remain with your sister a week longer, it will be better
than coming down to Cornwall now, as we shall be in London on
Monday next, at the latest. We should have come up to town for
Christmas as usual, if Aunt Barbara had not been so unwell;
and now that she is strong again, she wishes to be there as
soon as possible. It would not be worth while, therefore, for
you to make so long a journey just now. I hope you will come
and see us soon; it seems a long, long time since you went
away--more than five years.

"Ever your affectionate

"Madeleine Linders."

It was at the end of a dull March day that Horace Graham, just
arrived from Kent, made his way to his aunt's house in
Westminster. He thought more of Madelon than of Mrs. Treherne,
very likely, as the cab rattled along from the station. There
had never been much affection or sympathy between him and his
aunt, although he had always been grateful to her, for her
kindness to him as a boy; but she was not a person who
inspired much warmth of feeling, and his sister's little house
in the village where he had been born, had always appeared to
him more home-like than the great Cornwall house, where, as a
lad, he had been expected to spend the greater part of his
holidays. But he was pleased with the idea of seeing his
little Madelon again. He had not needed letters to remind him
of her during all these years; he had often thought of the
child whom he had twice rescued in moments of desolation and
peril, and who had been the heroine of such a romantic little
episode--thought of her and her doings with a sort of wonder
sometimes, at her daring, her independence, her devotion--and
all for him! When Graham thought of this, he felt very tender
towards his foolish, rash, loving little Madelon; he felt so
now, as he drove along to Westminster; he would not realize
how much she must be altered; she came before him always as
the little pale-faced girl, with short curly hair, in a shabby
black silk frock. It was a picture that, somehow, had made
itself a sure resting-place in Graham's heart.

"We did not expect you till the late train, sir; it is clo