These were, as we have said, Madelon's happiest times, and,
indeed, they hardly repaid the child for long days of
weariness and despondency, for hours of heart-sick longing for
she knew not what, of objectless hoping, of that saddest form
of home-sickness, that knows of no home for which to pine. In
all the future there was but one point on which her mind could
rest--Monsieur Horace's promised return, and that was too
vague, too remote to afford her much comfort. And her own
promise to him, has she forgotten that? She would not have
been the Madelon that we know if she had done so, but we need
hardly say that she had not been two days in the convent,
before she instinctively perceived how futile were all those
poor little schemes with which she had been so busy the
evening before she parted with Graham, how impossible it would
be to ask or obtain her aunt's permission for going to Spa on
such an errand. The convent was to all intents and purposes a
prison to our little Madelon, and she could only wait and
cherish her purpose till a happier moment.
She heard twice from Graham in the first few months.
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