"But, papa, he said--_ce Monsieur_--he said that people go to church _pour prier le bon Dieu_. What did he mean? We often say '_Mon Dieu_,' and I have heard them talk of _le bon Dieu;_ is that the same? Who is He then--_le bon Dieu?_" M. Linders did not at once reply. Madelon was looking up into his face with wide-open perplexed eyes, frowning a little with an unusual effort of thought, with the endeavour to penetrate a momentary mystery, which she instinctively felt lay somewhere, and which she looked to him to explain; and he _could_ not give her a careless, mocking answer; he sat staring blankly at her for a few seconds, and then said slowly, "I cannot tell you." "Do you not know, papa?" "Yes, yes, certainly I know," he answered hastily, and with some annoyance; "but--in short, Madelon, you are too young to trouble your head about these things; you cannot understand them possibly; when you are older you shall have them explained to you." "When, papa?" "Oh, I don't know--one of these days, when you are a great girl, grown up." "And you can't tell me now?" said Madelon, a little wistfully; "but you will let me go to the church again before that? Oh, indeed it was beautiful, with the lights, and the singing, and the music. Do you know, papa, it made me cry," she added, in a half whisper. "_Vraiment!_" said M. Linders, with some contempt in his voice, and a slight, involuntary shrug of the shoulders. The contempt was for a class of emotion with which he had no sympathy, and for that which he imagined had called it forth; not for his little Madelon, nor for her expression of it. But the child shrank back, blushing scarlet. He saw his mistake, perhaps, for he drew her towards him again, and with a tender caress and word tried to turn her thoughts in another direction; but it was too late; the impression had been made, and could never again be effaced. All unconsciously, with that one inadvertent word, M. Linders had raised the first slight barrier between himself and his child, had given the first shock to that confidence which he had fondly hoped was ever to exist undisturbed between them. In the most sacred hour her short life had yet known, Madeleine had appealed to him for help and sympathy, and she had been repulsed without finding either. She did not indeed view it in that light, nor believe in and love him the less; she only thought she must have been foolish; but she took well to heart the lesson that she should henceforth keep such folly to herself--as far as he was concerned, at any rate.