ou are cooler now," said graham, as she stood drawing her
shawl round her, her teeth chattering.

"Yes," she said, with a little shiver, "it is rather cold
here, and damp; it is raining, is it not? Let us go back and
dance. I adore dancing; it was papa who first taught it to me;
do you know, Monsieur Horace? He taught me a great many
things."

"You had better not dance any more," said Graham, taking her
little burning hand in his. "You are overheated already, and
will catch cold."

She snatched away her hand impatiently.

"Ah! do not touch me!" she cried. "Let us go--why do we stay
here? I do not want your prescriptions, Monsieur Horace. I
_will_ go and dance."

"Wait a minute," said Graham; "let me wrap your shawl closer
round you, or you will be wet through: it is pouring with
rain."

The friendly voice and action went to her heart, and seemed to
reproach her for her harsh, careless words. They walked back
in silence to the house; but when they reached the empty
music-room again, she put both hands on his arm with an
imploring gesture, as if to detain him.

"Don't go--don't leave me!" she said; "I am very wicked,
Monsieur Horace, but--"

And then she dropped down on to a seat in the deep recess
formed by the window.

The sight of her unhappiness touched Graham's heart with a
sharper pang than anything else had power to do. He loved her
so--this poor child--he would have warded off all unhappiness,
all trouble from her life; and there she sat miserable before
him, and it seemed to him he could not raise a finger to help
her.

"You are not happy, Madelon," he said, at length. "Can I do
nothing to help you?"

She raised her head and looked at him.

"Nothing, nothing!" she cried. "Ah, forgive me, Monsieur
Horace, for speaking so to you; but you do not know, you
cannot understand how unhappy I am."

"Buy why, Madelon? What is it? Has any one spoken unkindly to
you?"

"No, no, it is not that. You do not understand. Why do you
come to me here? Why am I here at all? If people knew who and
what I am, would they talk to me as they do? Supposing I had
told Lady Adelaide just now--yes, you heard every word of that
conversation--she would have despised me, as you pitied me,
Monsieur Horace. Yes, you pitied me; I saw it in your eyes."

"My pity is not such as you need resent, Madelon," said
Graham, with a sigh.

"I do not resent it," she answered hastily. "You are kind, you
are good; you do well to pity