done what I said I would, and he will think, perhaps, I want to break my word.”  Alas, must that grand surprise that was to have been prepared for him, all those fine schemes, and plans, and projects, must they all fall to the ground?  Was she never, never to show him how much she loved him?  And yet, if they made her a nun, how could she do it all?  He would never have his fortune made then, though she had promised to do it, and he would think she had forgotten him, and cared nothing about him.  So wearily did Madelon’s mind revolve, dwelling most of all on that promise made so long ago; and as she realized the possibility of her never being able to fulfil it at all, she became possessed with a feverish desire to get up that very moment and set about it.  If—­if—­ah, supposing she were to run away—­Aunt Therese is not here now, and she would not be afraid of the other nuns finding her, she would hide herself too well for that—­supposing she were to run away, go to Spa, make the fortune, and then write to Monsieur Horace?  Would not that be an idea?

When Soeur Lucie came in an hour later, to look after Madelon, she found her fast asleep; the traces of tears were still on her cheeks, and the pillow and bedclothes were all disarranged and tossed about again, but she was lying quite quietly now.  Soeur Lucie stood for a moment, looking down upon the child’s white face, that had grown so small and thin.  Her hair had been all cut off during her illness, and curled in soft brown rings all over her head, as when she was a little child, and indeed there was something most childlike in the peaceful little face, which had a look of repose that it seldom wore when the wistful brown eyes were open, with their expression of always longing and seeking for something beyond their ken.  Somehow Soeur Lucie was touched with a sudden feeling of unwonted tenderness for her little charge. “Pauvre petite,” she murmured, gently raising one hand that hung over the side of the bed, and smoothing back a stray lock of hair.  Madelon opened her eyes for a moment; “Monsieur Horace,” she said, “I have not forgotten, I—­I will——­” and then she turned away and fell sound asleep again.

CHAPTER IX.

The Red Silk Purse.

It was about three weeks later, that Madelon was sitting one evening at her bed-room window; it was open, and the breeze blew in pleasantly, bringing with it the faint scent of early roses and lingering violets.  In the garden below, lengthening shadows fell across the cherished centre square of grass, the trees were all golden-green in the western sunlight; black-veiled Sisters were walking about breaking the stillness with their voices and laughter; along the convent wall the vines were shooting and spreading their long tender sprays, and on the opposite side a great westeria was shedding showers of lilac blossoms with every breath of wind amongst the shrubs and evergreens below.