“Yes, yes, some day, I hope,” said Horace; “why, you don’t think I am going to forget you?  My poor little Madelon, I am sorry to have startled you, but I will explain how it is,” and then he told her how there was a great war going on, and he had been called away to join his regiment which was ordered out to the Crimea; “you know,” he said smiling at her, “I told you it would never do for you to come marching about with me, and running the chance of being shot at.”

He tried to speak cheerfully, but indeed it was not easy with that sad little face before him.  Madelon did not answer; she only leant her head against the wooden bars of the grating, and sobbed in the most miserable, heart-broken way.  It made Graham quite unhappy to see her.

“Don’t cry so, Madelon,” he kept on saying, almost as much distressed as she was, “I cannot bear to see you cry.”  And indeed he could not, for the kind-hearted young fellow had a theory that children and dogs and birds and all such irresponsible creatures should be happy as the day is long, and there seemed something too grievous in this overpowering distress in little Madelon.  She checked herself a little presently, however, drawing back one hand to wipe away her tears, while she clung to him tightly with the other.  He began to talk to her again as soon as she was able to listen, saying everything he could to cheer and encourage her, telling her what he was going to do, and how he would write to her, and she must write to him, and tell him all about herself, and how she must be a good little girl, and study very hard, and learn all sorts of things, and how he would certainly come back some day and see her.

“When?” asks Madelon.

“Ah, that I cannot tell you, but before very long I hope, and meantime you must make haste and grow tall—­let me see how tall shall I expect you to be? as tall as that——­” touching one of the bars above her head.

She tried to smile as she answered, “It would take me a long time to grow as tall as that.”

“Not if you make haste and try very hard,” he said; “and by that time you will have learnt such a number of things, music, and geography, and sewing, and—­what is it little girls learn?” So he went on talking; but she scarcely answered him, only held his hands tighter and tighter, as if she was afraid he would escape from her.  Something seemed to have gone from her in these last few days, something of energy, and spirit, and hopefulness; Horace had never seen her so utterly forlorn and downcast before, not even on the night of her father’s death.

At last he looked at his watch.  “I must go, Madelon,” he said, “I have to catch the train.”

“No, no, don’t go!” she cried, suddenly starting from her desponding attitude, “don’t go and leave me, I cannot stay here—­I cannot—­don’t go!”

She was holding him so tightly that he could not move, her eyes fixed on his face with an intensity of pleading.  He was almost sorry that he had come at all.