e had no reproaches, expressed or implied, to fear from
Madelon. "No one had ever so believed in him before!" he would
sigh, with a feeling not without a certain pathos in its way,
though with the ring of false sentiment characteristic of the
man, and with an apparent want of perception that it was
ignorance rather than belief that was in question. Madelon
believed indeed in his love, for it answered readily to her
daily and hourly appeals, but she cannot be aid to have
believed in his honour and integrity, for she can hardly have
known what they meant, and she made no claims upon _them_. It
was, perhaps, happy for her that the day when she should have
occasion to do so never arrived.

She was not left quite uneducated, however; her father taught
her after his own fashion, and she gained a good deal of
practical knowledge in their many wanderings. When she was six
years old she could talk almost as many languages, could
dance, and could sing a variety of songs with the sweetest,
truest little voice; and by the time she was eight or nine,
she had learned both to write and read, though M. Linders took
care that her range of literature should be limited, and
chiefly confined to books of fairy-tales, in which no examples
drawn from real life could be found, to correct and confuse
the single-sided views she received from him. This was almost
the extent of her learning, but she picked up all sorts of odd
bits of information, in the queer mixed society which M.
Linders seemed everywhere to gather round him, and which
appeared to consist of waifs and strays from every grade of
society--from reckless young English milords, Russian princes,
and Polish counts, soi-disant, down to German students and
penniless artists.

It was, no doubt, fortunate, even at this early age, that
Madelon's little pale face, with its wide-open brown eyes, had
none of the prettiness belonging to the rosy-cheeked, blue-
eyed, golden-haired type of beauty, and that she thus escaped
a world of flattery and nonsense. She was silent too in
company, as a rule, keeping her chatter and laughter, for the
most part, till she was alone with her father, and content
sometimes to sit as quiet as a mouse for a whole evening,
watching what was going on around her; she was too much
accustomed to strangers ever to feel shy with them, but she
cared little for them, unless, as in Horace Graham's case,
they happened to take her fancy.

It must no be imagined, howeve