"Certainly; but don't you think the teaching had better come gradually?--it would break her heart, to begin with, to be told her father was not everything she imagines--if indeed she could be made to understand it just yet, which I doubt." "Of course it would be cruel to shake a child's faith in her father," answered Mrs. Treherne; "but she must learn it in time. Monsieur Linders was one of the most worthless men that ever lived, and Charles Moore was as bad, if not worse. I wonder--good heavens, Horace, how one wonders at such things!--I wonder what Magdalen had done that she should be left to the mercy of two such men as those." "Well, it is no fault of Madelon's, at any rate," Horace began; and then stopped, as the door opened, and Madelon came in. In her hand she carried a queer little bundle of treasures, that she had brought away with her from the convent--the old German's letter, the two that Horace had sent her, and one or two other things, all tied together with a silk thread. "This is the letter," she said, selecting one from the packet, and giving it to Mrs. Treherne. It was the one she had read in the evening twilight in her convent cell last May. "I am afraid there is no name on it, for there is no beginning nor ending. I think it must have been burnt." "Why, that is your writing, Aunt Barbara!" said Graham, who had come forward to inspect these relics. "Yes, it is mine," said Mrs. Treherne. "It was written by me many years ago." She glanced at the letter as she spoke, then crushed it up quickly in her hand, and with a sudden flush on her pale cheek turned to Madelon. "My dear," she said, putting one arm round the child's waist, and caressing her hair with the other hand, "I knew you mother very well; she was my cousin, and the very dearest friend I ever had. I think you must come and live with me, and be my child, as there is no one else who has any claim on you." "Did you know mamma, Madame?" said Madelon. "And papa--did you know him?" "No, my dear, I never knew your father," said Mrs. Treherne, with a change in her voice, and relaxing her hold of the child. "You forget, Madelon," said Graham, coming to the rescue, "your father never went to England, so he did not make acquaintance with your mother's friends. But that is not the question now; my aunt wants to know if you will not come and live with her in England, and be her little girl? That would be pleasanter than the convent, would it not?" "Yes, thank you. I should like to go and live in England very much," said Madelon, her eyes wandering wistfully from Mrs. Treherne to Graham. "And with you too, Monsieur Horace?" she added, quickly. "Not with me, exactly," he answered, taking her hand in his; "for I am going off to America in a month or two; and you know we agreed that you and I could not go about the world together; but I shall often hear of you, and from you, and be quite sure that you are happy; and that will be a great thing, will it not?"