ideas.  But if it were so, she never spoke of it, nor of any of the half-formed hopes and projects she may have had; and Madelon never could have guessed them, as her kind, sad hostess silently made up her small wardrobe into a bundle, and patched the old black silk frock once more, sighing over it the while.  And had Madelon then no regrets at leaving the little cottage, where she had been tended with such motherly care?  Some, perhaps; for as she sat that last evening watching Jeanne-Marie at her work, she, too, sighed a little; and at last, clasping her arms round the woman’s neck, she cried, “Jeanne-Marie, I will love you always—­always!—­I will never forget you!”

“That is as may be,” says melancholy Jeanne-Marie, disengaging herself.

“Ah! you will not believe me,” said Madelon; “but I tell you I never forget, and you have been so good, so kind to me!  Sometimes I think I should like to stay with you always—­would you let me?”

“Would I let you?” said Jeanne-Marie, dropping her work suddenly, and looking at the child.  “No, I would not let you,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “unless you had nowhere else to go; but you have other friends, it appears, and it is well for you.  No, I would not let you, for it would be as bad a thing for you as could be.  Ask any of the neighbours what they would think of it—­ask them if they think you would get good or bad from me, and see what they would say!” She gave a little scornful laugh.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Madelon, fixing her great eyes on her with a puzzled look—­“I don’t care what they would say.  You are one of the best people I ever knew, and I love you with all my heart; but I must go away.”

“Why must you?” asks Jeanne-Marie, stitching away at the black frock.

“That is what I cannot tell you,” said Madelon.  “No, I will not tell any one, though I should like to tell you, too,” added the poor child, gazing wistfully at almost the only friend she had in the world.

“Well, well,” said Jeanne-Marie, “I do not want to hear your secrets, as you know, unless you like to tell them; but I am not going to lose sight of you altogether till I hear you are safe with your friends.  You must write me a letter from Spa, and if I do not hear or see anything of you in a week’s time, I shall come and look after you.”

“Yes, I will write,” said Madelon; “and I wish—­I wish I was not going away; I have been so happy here.”  And then she hid her face on Jeanne-Marie’s shoulder, while the sky was all rosy with the sunset of the last of these peaceful summer days that our Madelon was to spend at Le Trooz.

Jeanne-Marie could not spare time to go again to Spa the next day, but she went with Madelon to the station, and waited till the train that bore her away was out of sight, and then, all lonely, she walked back to her empty house.

CHAPTER XVI.