she may think of, or heed them.  Sebastopol has fallen in these last months, the Crimean war is at an end, and all the world that was discussing battles and sieges when Horace Graham last parted with Madelon one September afternoon, is talking of treaties and peace now, as the allied armies move homewards from the East.  And—­which indeed would have had more interest for Madelon could she have known it—­ Graham himself, after more than two years’ hard work, had been wounded in one of the last skirmishes; and with this wound, and the accompanying fever, had lain for weeks very near to death in the Scutari hospital, to be sent home at last, invalided to England.  While Madelon had been slowly recovering from her fever in her little out-of-the-world refuge at Le Trooz, Graham had been gaining health and strength in a pleasant English home, with a sister to nurse and pet him, nephews and nieces to make much of him, and the rosiest cheeks and bluest eyes in the world to fall in love with, as he lay idly on the lawn through the summer days.  It was at the house of his sister, who was married to a country doctor in Kent, that this double process of love-making and convalescence went on, with the greatest success and satisfaction to all parties; and it was Miss Maria Leslie, the ward of his brother-in-law, Dr. Vavasour, who was the owner of those bluest eyes and rosiest cheeks.

Meanwhile Madelon, stitching, stitching away at her work, thought vaguely of Monsieur Horace as being still in that far-off country from which he had last written to her, and wondered a little how soon a letter written to the English address he had given her would reach him.  What would he say and think when he received it?  And when, ah! when would she be able to write it?  She worked on steadily, and yet it was already September when the last stitch was put in, and she could give the work to Jeanne-Marie.  A few days afterwards the woman put thirty francs into her hands.

“There is your money,” she said; “now what are you going to do with it?”

“I am going away,” answered Madelon.

“Yes?” said Jeanne-Marie, without any apparent emotion, “and where are you going?”

“I am going to Spa.  Ah!  Jeanne-Marie, do not ask me what I am going to do; it is my secret, I cannot tell any one, but you shall know some day.”

Jeanne-Marie was silent for a moment, then, “Look here, ma petite,” she said; “I don’t want to know what you are going to do; it is no concern of mine, and I cannot keep you if you want to go away; but who are you going to in Spa?  I cannot let you go off without knowing where you are, and whether you are safe.  You might have the fever again, or some one might try to take you back to the convent, and I should know nothing about it.  Where are you going?  Have you any friends at Spa?”

“There is only Madame Bertrand at the Hotel de Madrid,” replied Madelon, rather disconsolately; “I would not mind going to her again, she is so kind; she wanted me to stay with her the last time I was there—­but then there is Mademoiselle Henriette—­it was she who wished to send me back to the convent; if she were not there, I should not be afraid.”