That evening, after Madelon had gone up to bed, she stood long at her open window looking out into the night.  Her bedroom was high up in the hotel, and overlooked a large public place; just opposite was a big, lighted theatre, and from where she stood she could catch the sound of the music, and could fancy the bright interior, the gay dresses, the balcony, the great chandeliers, the actors, the stage.  It was her farewell for many a long day to the scenes and pleasures of her past life, but she did not know it.  The sound of the music stirred within her a sort of vague excitement, an indefinite longing, and she was busy peopling the future—­a child’s future, it is true, not extending beyond two or three weeks, but yet sufficient to make her forget the past for the moment.  She must have stood there for nearly an hour; any one looking up might have wondered to see the little head popped out of window, the little figure so still and motionless.  Up above the stars twinkled unheeded; down below other stars seemed to be dancing across the wide Place, but they were only the lamps of the carriages as they drove to and fro from the theatre.  And yonder, on the outskirts of this busy town, with its lights and crowds and gay bustle, sleeping under the silent, slow-moving constellations, surrounded by the dark rustling trees, stands the still convent, where a narrow room awaits this dreaming eager little watcher.  Our poor little Madelon!  Not more difference between this gay, familiar music to which all her life has been set hitherto, and the melancholy chant of the nuns, whose echoes have already passed from her memory, than between the future she is picturing to herself and the one preparing for her—­but she does not know it.

CHAPTER V.

Mademoiselle Linders.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning Graham once more started for the convent, this time, however, leaving Madelon at the hotel.  He had written from Paris to the Superior immediately after her brother’s death, but had received no reply.  M. Linders’ letter he had kept by him to deliver in person when he should have reached Liege.

Madelon was watching for his return, and ran to meet him with a most eager face.

“Have you seen my aunt?” she said.  “Am I to go?”

“Yes, you are to go, Madelon,” he said, looking down on her, and taking her hands in his.  “I have seen your aunt, and we have agreed that it is best I should take you there this afternoon.”

He sat down and gave her some little account of the interview he had had with her father’s sister; not the whole, however, for he said nothing of his own feeling of disappointment in the turn that it had taken, nor of the compassion that he felt for his little charge.