He put his arm round her, as she stood beside him, and took one of her little hands in his; he was so sorry for the poor little girl, and yet he hardly knew what to say to console her. She gave two or three more little sobs, rubbing her eyes with her other hand to keep back the tears; presently she looked up into his face, and said: "Do you really think I had better go to bed?" "Indeed I do," replied Horace, much relieved by the practical turn her thoughts were taking; "I am really afraid you will be ill to-morrow if you do not, and you know I must take care of you now." "I thought papa was all alone in here, and I was alone too," said Madelon, "it was so dark and lonely in my room." "Well," said Horace, "I am going to stay in here for a little while, and presently I will open your door, and then it will be almost as if you were in the same room; won't that do?" "Yes, thank you," said Madelon, who indeed was so tired that she could hardly speak. Graham lighted a candle for her, and opened the door leading into the inner room; she paused a moment as she took the light; and gazed up into the kind face looking down upon her; then she put her hand into his, and saying, "Good-night, Monsieur," went into her own room. Graham closed the door, and returned to his writing. That was all that passed between them, but from that time Madelon's feeling for Horace Graham approached adoration. CHAPTER IV. Madelon's Promise. A week later, and Madelon was again, as on the day of her father's death, standing at a long open window, looking out on the fading glories of another evening sky. But instead of the narrow Paris street, with its noisy rattle of vehicles, and high white houses limiting the view of earth and heaven, before her lay the small garden of a Liege hotel, and beyond, the steep slope of a hill, where, mingled with trees, roof rose above roof, to where two churches crowning the ridge, showed their grey masses outlined against the clear pale blue.