And meanwhile, Jeanne-Marie, in the room below, had been hardening her heart against the child after her own fashion. She had answered Mrs. Treherne's questions curtly, rejected the faintest suggestion of money as an insult, and stood eyeing Graham defiantly while the talk went on. "Madelon has grand new friends now," she was thinking all the time very likely, "and will go away and be happy, and forget all about me; well, let her go--what does it matter?" And then presently, going upstairs to look for this happy, triumphant Madelon, she found her crouching on the floor, trying to stifle the sound of her despairing sobs. "Oh, Jeanne-Marie, Jeanne-Marie!" she cried, as soon as she could speak, "I wish I might stay with you, I wish I had never gone away; what was the use of it all? I thought I was going to be so happy, and now I am to go to England, and Monsieur Horace is to go to America, and I shall never, never, be happy again!" "What was the use of what?" says Jeanne-Marie, taking the child into her kind arms; "why will you never be happy again? Are they unkind to you? Is that gentleman downstairs Monsieur Horace that you used to talk about?" "Yes, that is Monsieur Horace. Ah, no, he is not unkind, he is kinder than any one--you do not understand, Jeanne-Marie, and I cannot tell you, but I am very unhappy." She put her arms round the woman's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder. In truth, Jeanne-Marie did not understand what all this terrible grief and despair were about. Madelon, as we know, had never confided her hopes, and plans, and wishes to her; but she knew that the child whom she loved better than all the world was in trouble, and that she must send her away without being able to say a word to comfort her, and that seemed hard to bear. So they sat silent for awhile; and then Jeanne-Marie got up. "You must go, _ma petite_," she said; "Madame is waiting, and I came to fetch you." She walked to the door, and then turned round suddenly. "_Ecoutez, mon enfant_," she said, placing her two hands on Madelon's shoulders, and looking down into her face, "you will not forget me? I--I should not like to think you will go away, and forget me." "Never!" cried Madelon; "how could I? I will never forget you, Jeanne-Marie, and some day, if I can, I will come back and see you." So they parted, and, of the two, it was the brave, faithful heart of the woman that suffered the sharper pang, though she went about her daily work without saying a word or shedding a tear.