failure, for not even the artist's rather forced gaiety, nor
M. Linders' real indifference, could enliven it. As for the
old German, he sat there, saying little, eating less, and
smoking a great deal; and Madelon at his side was speechless,
only rousing herself later in the evening to coax him into
playing once more all her favourite tunes. Everyone, except,
perhaps, M. Linders, felt more or less sorry at the breaking
up of a pleasant little society which had lasted for some
months, and the violinist almost felt as if he were being
separated from his own child. Madelon wished him good-bye that
night, but she ran upstairs very early the next morning to see
him once more before starting.

The old man was greatly moved; he was standing looking sadly
out of the window when she came in, and when he saw her in her
little travelling cloak, the tears began to run down his
rugged old cheeks.

"God bless thee, my little one!" he said. "I shall miss thee
sorely--but thou wilt not forget me?"

"Never, never!" cries Madelon, with a little sob, and
squeezing the kind hands that held hers so tightly.

"And if I should never see thee again," said the German, in
broken accents, "if--if--remember, I----" He hesitated and
stammered, and M. Linders' voice was heard calling Madelon.

"I must go," she said, "papa is calling me; but I will never
forget you--never; ah! you have been so good, so kind to me.