Graham saw that she was utterly wretched and worn out. He could guess pretty well how it had all happened, and reproached himself for not having foreseen and provided against the chance of her waking up and finding herself alone; and now he hardly knew what to do--to speak to her, or to urge her any more just then, would only make matters worse. At last he said quietly,-- "I have some writing to do, and I am going to bring it in here; you will not mind that, I daresay?" No answer; Horace left the room, but in a moment he returned, sat down at the table and began to write. A stillness which the rapid scratching of the pen upon the paper, and the vague, ceaseless hum of the great city coming through the open window, only seemed to render apparent; occasionally the clang of a church clock, the sudden rattle of wheels rising like hollow thunder and dying away into remote distance, a far-off cry, and then a silence more profound by contrast. Madelon, sitting in her dark corner, began to recover herself; in truth, it was the greatest possible relief to have Graham in the room with her, bringing light and the warm sense of a living presence into the chill, unnatural silence and darkness of death; and presently she began to awake to a half-penitent consciousness that she had been cross, rude, not at all raisonnable in fact; little by little she shifted her position, and at length turned quite round to look at M. le Docteur. Monsieur le Docteur was not looking at her, nor thinking of her apparently, for he never raised his eyes from his writing; the candle light shone on his rough brown hair, on his pleasant, clever face, with keen profile, well defined against a shadowy background. Madelon sat watching him as though fascinated; there was something in the absorbed attention he was giving to his writing, which subdued and attracted her far more than any words he could have spoken to her, or notice he could have taken of her just then. He had apparently forgotten her, this kind Monsieur le Docteur, who had evidently more important things to think about than her and her pettish little speeches; or she had perhaps made him angry, and he would not take any more notice of her at all? There was a certain amount of probability in this last idea to the self- convicted little Madelon, that urged her to some sort of action; she sat still for a few moments longer, then got up and stole softly across the room to where Graham was sitting. "I did not mean to be cross, Monsieur," she said, in her little trembling voice, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, and tears in her eyes. Perhaps Graham _had_ forgotten her for the moment, for he gave a little start as he looked round. "I am sure you did not," he said quite earnestly, as he laid down his pen, "but you are so tired to-night, and unhappy too; are you not?" "Ah, yes," she answered, with a little sob, "I am very unhappy!"