Madelon came in, and went to the window.  It looked down upon the lawn, with the still tree-shadows lying across it, and some other shadows that were not still—­those of two people walking up and down, talking earnestly.  She could distinguish Monsieur Horace’s voice, and then Maria’s in answer, and then Monsieur Horace again, and a sudden pang seemed to seize the poor child’s heart, and hold it tight in its grasp.  How happy they were, those two, talking together down there, whilst she was all alone up her, looking on!

“Do come here, Cousin Madelon,” said Madge’s impatient voice from the bed.  “I want you to tuck me up, and give me a kiss.”

Madelon went up to the bed, and kneeling down by it, laid her cheek wearily by Madge’s on the pillow.  The child passed her arm round her neck, and hugged her tight, and the innocent, loving caress soothed the girl’s sore heart, for the moment, more than anything else could have done.

“Little Madge,” she said, drawing the child closer to her, as if the pressure of the little, soft, warm limbs had power to stop the aching at her heart.  “Oh!  Madge, I wish I were no bigger and no older than you.  One is happier so.”

“Do you?” said Madge, wondering.  “I should like to be grown-up, as tall and beautiful as you are, and to sing like you.  You were singing just now downstairs; I opened the window, and could hear you quite plainly.  Why did you stop so soon?”

“It was hot,” said Madelon, her face flushing up again at the recollection; “and one is not always in the mood for singing, you know, Madge.”

“Ah, but do sing me just one song, now, Cousin Madelon—­just here, before I go to sleep.”

Still kneeling, with Madge’s head nestling on her shoulder, Madelon began to sing a little half-gay, half-melancholy French romance of many verses.  The tune seemed to grow more and more plaintive as it went on, a pathetic, monotonous chant, rising and falling.  Before it was ended, Madge’s hold had relaxed, her eyes were closed—­she was sound asleep for the night.  Madelon rose gently, kissed the honest, rosy, freckled face; and then, as if drawn by some invincible attraction, went back to the window.

Yes; they were still there, those two, not walking up and down now, but standing under the big tree at the end of the lawn still talking, as she could see by their gestures.  “Ah, how happy they are!” thinks our Madelon again, forgetting the scene of the afternoon, her doubts, her half-formed suspicions—­how happy they must be, Monsieur Horace, who loves Maria, Maria who is loved by Monsieur Horace, whilst she—­why, it is she who loves Monsieur Horace, who has loved him since he rescued her, a little child, from loneliness and despair—­ she, who for all these years has had but one thought, Monsieur Horace, one object, Monsieur Horace, and who sees herself now shut out from such a bright, gleaming paradise, into such shivering outer darkness.  Ah, she loved him—­she loved him—­she owned it to herself now, with a sudden burst of passion—­and he was going away; he had no thought of her; his path in life lay along one road, and hers along another—­a road how blank, how dreary, wrapped in what grey, unswerving mists.