Madelon, meanwhile, was relating all her adventures to her father. He was too rejoiced at having found her again to scold her for running away; but he was greatly put out, nevertheless, as he listened to her little history. Here, then, was en emergency, such as he had dimly foreseen, and done much to avoid, which yet had come upon him unawares, without fault of his, and which he was quite unprepared to meet. He did not, indeed, fully understand its importance, nor all that was passing in his child's mind; but he did perceive that she had caught a glimpse through doors he had vainly tried to keep closed to her, and that that one glance had so aroused her curiosity and interest, that it would be less easy than usual to satisfy her. "Why do you never go to church, papa?" she was asking. "Why do you not take me? It was so beautiful, and there were such numbers of people. Why do we not go?" "I don't care about it myself," he answered, at last, "but you shall go again some day, _ma petite_, if you like it so much." "May I?" said Madelon. "And will you take me, papa? What makes so many people go? Madame said they went every Sunday and _fete_ day." "I suppose they like it," answered M. Linders. "Some people go every day, and all day long--nuns, for instance, who have nothing else to do." "It is, then, when people have nothing else to do that they go?" asked Madelon, misunderstanding him, with much simplicity. "Something like it," answered M. Linders, rather grimly; then, with a momentary compunction, added, "Not precisely. They do it also, I suppose, because they think it right." "And do you not think it right, papa? Why should they? I have seen people coming out of church before, but I never knew what it was like inside. I _may_ go again some day?" "When you are older, my child, I will take you again, perhaps." "But that little girl Nanette, papa, was only five years old when she went first, her mother said, and I have never been at all," said Madelon, feeling rather aggrieved. "Well, when we go to Florence next winter, Madelon, you shall visit all the churches. They are much more splendid than these, and have the most beautiful pictures, which I should like you to see." "And will there be music, and lights, and flowers there, the same as here, papa?" "Oh! for that, it is much the same everywhere," replied M. Linders. "People are much alike all the world over, as you will find, Madelon. Priests, and mummery, and a gaping crowd, to stare and say, 'How wonderful! how beautiful!' as you do now, _ma petite;_ but you shall know better some day." He spoke with a certain bitterness that Madelon did not understand, any more than she did his little speech; but it silenced her for a moment, and then she said more timidly, "But, papa----" "Well, Madelon!"