So Madelon heard nothing more of Monsieur Horace, though she
often, often thought of him, and wondered what he was doing.
He was very busy, very hard-worked; an army-surgeon had no
sinecure in the Crimea in those days, as we know, and it was
perhaps well for the child, who cared more for him than for
any one else in the world, that she knew nothing of his life
at this time, of wintry battle-fields and hospital tents, of
camps and trenches, where, day and night, he had to fight in
his own battle with sickness, and wounds, and death. No news
from the war came to Madelon's ears, no whisper from all the
din and clamour that were filling Europe, penetrated to this
quiet, out-of-the-world, little world in which her lot was
cast. The mighty thunder of the guns before Sebastopol rolled,
echoing, to the north, and roused sunny cities basking in the
south, and stirred a million hearts in the far islands of the
west; but it died away before the vine-covered gate, the
white-washed walls of the little Belgian convent. There life
stole on at an even pace, little asked of it, yielding little
in return, and amongst that peaceful Sisterhood, one little
restless spirit, ever seeking and feeling after what she could
not find, looking in the faces of all around her, if so be
some one could help her, and, with a child's instinct,
rejecting each in turn.
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