s strange," said Madelon. She pushed open the door that
stood ajar, and went into the little public room; it was
empty; the table shoved away into one corner, the chairs
placed against the wall--no signs of the old life and
occupation.

"Can Jeanne-Marie have gone away, do you think?" said Madelon,
almost piteously. "I am sure she cannot be here."

"I will inquire," said Graham.

He went out into the road, and stopped a little girl of ten or
twelve years, who was walking towards the village with a
pitcher of water.

"Do you know whether the woman who lived in this house has
left?" he asked. "Jeanne-Marie she was called, I think?"

The child stared up at the strange gentleman with the foreign
accent:

"Jeanne-Marie that used to live here?" she said. "She is
dead."

"Dead?" cried Madelon. The tears came rushing into her eyes.
"Ah! why did I not know? I would have come if I had known.
When did she die?"

"More than a month ago," the girl answered; "she died here in
this house."

"And who lives here now?" inquired Graham.

"Jacques Monnier--he that works at the factory now. He is out
all day; but his wife should be here."

And in fact, at the sound of the voices, the door leading into
the kitchen opened, and a young woman appeared.

"Pardon," said Madelon, going forward; "we came here to
inquire for Jeanne-Marie; but she--she is dead, we hear."

"Yes, she is dead," the woman replied; then, in answer to
further questions, told how Jeanne-Marie, when she was taken
ill, had refused to let any one be written to, or sent for;
and had died alone at last with no one near her but a hired
nurse. "She left enough money for her burial, and to have a
wooden cross put on her grave," said the woman, "and asked M.
le Cure to see that all her things were sold, and the money
given to the poor."

"Is she buried here?" said Madelon. "Horace, I should like to
see her grave."

"Louise, there, can show it to you," says Madame Monnier,
pointing to the child; "run home with your water, _ma petite_,
and then come back and show Monsieur and Madame the road to
the churchyard."

"And I have a favour to beg," said Madelon, turning to the
woman again. "I knew Jeanne-Marie well; she was very kind to
me at one time. Might I see the room in which she died? It is
upstairs, is it not, with the window opening on to the steps
leading into the garden?"

The woman consented civilly enough, concealing any
astonishment she might feel a