to commit. "But I am not a nun yet," thinks the poor child,
clasping and unclasping her hands in her perplexity, and
struggling with the conscience-stricken sense of naughtiness,
which threatened at this last moment to overpower all her
foregone conclusions, and disconcert her in spite of herself--
"I am not a nun yet, so it cannot be so very wrong in me; and
then there is Monsieur Horace----" and with the thought of him
all Madelon's courage returned. The rush of associations
linking his name with a hundred aspirations, hopes, plans,
which had become a habit of mind with her, revived in full
force, and with these came a sudden realization of the
imminent nature of the present opportunity, which, if lost,
might never return.

The next moment she had dropped her bundle on the flower-bed
below, and was scrambling out of the low window, clinging to
the window-sill, catching hold of tough stems and pliant
branches, crashing down through twigs, and leaves, and
flowers, on to the ground beneath. Could these convent-trained
vines and roses have known what daring little culprit was
amongst them, would they have cried aloud for aid, I wonder,
stretching out thorny sprays, and twining tendrils, to catch
and detain her prisoner?--or would they not rather, in their
sweet liberty of air, and dew, and sunshine, have done their
best to help forward this poor little captive in her flight,
aiding her in her descent, and shielding her from all prying
eyes with their leafy branches, their interlacing sprays of
red buds, and soft, faint flowers?

But they paid no heed one way or the other, and Madelon, with