"My dear," she said, taking Madelon's hand, "Horace has been telling me about you, and from what he says, I think you and I must become better acquainted. He tells me your name is Madeleine Linders." "Yes, Madame," says Madelon, rather shyly, and glancing up at the beautiful face, which, with blue eyes and golden hair still undimmed, might have been that of some fair saint or Madonna, but for a certain chilling expression of cold sadness. "I knew something of a Monsieur Linders once," said Mrs. Treherne, "and I think he must have been your father, my dear. Your mother was English, was she not? Can you tell me what her name was before she married?" "I--I don't know," said Madelon; "she died when I was quite a baby." "Nearly thirteen years ago, that would be? Yes, that is as I thought; but have you never heard her English name, never seen it written? Have you nothing that once belonged to her?" "Yes, Madame," answered Madelon; "there is a box at the convent that was full of things, clothes, and some books. There was a name written in them--ah! I cannot remember it--it was English." "Moore?" asked Mrs. Treherne. "Stay, I will write it. Magdalen Moore--was that it?" "Yes," said Madelon; "I think it was--yes, I know it was. I remember the letters now. But I have something of hers here, too," she added--"a letter, that I found in the pocket of this dress--this was mamma's once, and it was in the trunk. Shall I fetch it?--it is upstairs." "Yes, I should like to see it, my dear. You will wonder at all these questions, but, if I am not mistaken, your mother was a very dear friend of mine." Madelon left the room, and Mrs. Treherne, sitting down at the table, began to arrange her breakfast-cups. Horace was standing with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing into the fire; he had been silent during this short interview, but as Madelon disappeared,-- "Is she at all like her mother?" he inquired. "She is like--yes, certainly she is like; her eyes remind me of Magdalen's--and yet she is unlike, too." "You must be prepared," said Horace, after a moment's pause, "to find her devoted to her father's memory; and not without reason, I must say, for he was devoted to her, after his own fashion. She thinks him absolute perfection; and, in fact, I believe this escapade of hers to have been entirely founded on precedents furnished by him." "I think it is the most dreadful thing I ever heard of," said Mrs. Treherne--"a child of that age alone in such a place!" "Well, I really don't know," answered Graham, half laughing. "I don't suppose it has done her much mischief; and of this I am quite sure, that she had no idea of there being any more harm in going to a gambling-table than in going for a walk." "That appears to me the worst part of it, that a child should have been brought up in such ignorance of right and wrong. However, she can be taught differently."