"Ah, that I cannot tell you, but before very long I hope, and meantime you must make haste and grow tall--let me see how tall shall I expect you to be? as tall as that----" touching one of the bars above her head. She tried to smile as she answered, "It would take me a long time to grow as tall as that." "Not if you make haste and try very hard," he said; "and by that time you will have learnt such a number of things, music, and geography, and sewing, and--what is it little girls learn?" So he went on talking; but she scarcely answered him, only held his hands tighter and tighter, as if she was afraid he would escape from her. Something seemed to have gone from her in these last few days, something of energy, and spirit, and hopefulness; Horace had never seen her so utterly forlorn and downcast before, not even on the night of her father's death. At last he looked at his watch. "I must go, Madelon," he said, "I have to catch the train." "No, no, don't go!" she cried, suddenly starting from her desponding attitude, "don't go and leave me, I cannot stay here--I cannot--don't go!" She was holding him so tightly that he could not move, her eyes fixed on his face with an intensity of pleading. 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.