He was
almost sorry that he had come at all.
"My poor little Madelon," he said, "I must go--I must, you
know--there--there, good-bye, good-bye."
He squeezed the little hands that were clinging so desperately
to him, again and again, and then tried gently to unloose
them; suddenly she relaxed her hold, and flung herself away
from him. Graham hastened away without another word, but as he
reached the door he turned round for one more look. Madelon
had thrown herself down upon the low window-seat, her face
buried in her folded arms, her frame shaking with sobs; the
nun had come forward and was trying to comfort her--the bare
grey walls, the black dresses, the despairing little figure
crouching there, and outside the courtyard all aglow in the
afternoon sunshine, with pigeons whirring and perching on the
sloping roofs, spreading their wings against the blue sky--it
was a little picture that long lived in Graham's memory. Poor
little Madelon!
CHAPTER VI.
In the Convent.
Not till Monsieur Horace was indeed gone, and there was no
longer any hope of seeing him return, not till the last door
was closed between them, the last link broken with the outer
world, not till then perhaps did our little Madelon begin to
comprehend the change that one brief fortnight had worked in
her whole life.
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