"They are beautiful," said Madelon, taking them from her; "won't you come in? I will put some of them in my hair." She sat down before the looking-glass, and began arranging them in her hair, whilst Madge stood and watched her with wide-open eyes. "They are out of my own garden," she said presently. "I might have guessed that, they are so pretty," said Madelon, turning round and smiling at her; it was in the girl's nature to make these little gracious speeches, which came to her more readily than ordinary words of thanks. "I like them very much," she went on; "they remind me of some that grew in the convent garden." "Were you ever in a convent?" asked Madge, with a certain awe. "Yes, for two years, when I was about as old as you are." "And were there any nuns there?" asked Madge, whose ideas were not enlarged, and who looked upon a nun as the embodiment of much romance. "To be sure," answered Madelon, rather amused; "they were all nuns, except some little girls who came every day to be taught by them." "Then you were at school there?" said Madge. "Not exactly; my aunt was the--what do you call it?--Lady Superior of the convent; that was why I went there." "And did you like it?" inquired Madge, who was apparently of opinion that such an opportunity for gaining exceptional information should not be wasted. "I don't know," answered Madelon; "I don't think I did at the time; I used to find it very dull, and I often longed to be away. But the nuns were very kind to me; and it is pleasant to look back upon, so quiet and peaceful. I think we don't always know when and where we are happy," she added, with a little sigh. She sat leaning against the table, her head resting on her hand, thinking over the past--as she was for ever thinking of the past now, poor child! How sad, how weary they had been, those years in the convent--yes, she knew that she had found them so--and yet how peaceful, how innocent, how sheltered! Reading her past life in the new light that every day made its shadows darker, she knew that those years were the only ones of her childhood which she could look back upon, without the sudden pang that would come with the memory of those others which she had found so happy then, but which she knew now were--what? Ah, something so different from what she had once imagined! But as for those days at the convent, they came back to her, softened by the kindly haze of time, with the strangest sense of restfulness and security, utterly at variance, one would say, with the restless longing with which she looked out on the world of action--and yet not wholly inconsistent with it perhaps, after all. Did she indeed know when and where she would be happy?