He raised himself with an effort, and passed his arm round her, so that she could lay her head on his shoulder; and then in answer to her question,—­

“No, I am not better,” he said, “and I do not suppose I ever shall be better now.  But never mind that,” as she raised her head suddenly, and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, “let us talk a little, Madelon.  We have always been happy together; have we not, my child?”

“Ah! yes, papa.”

“And later, when you are grown into a woman—­as you will be, you know, by-and-by—­and you think of the years when you were when you were a little girl, you will like to recall them; will you not, Madelon?  You will remember that they were happy?”

“Yes, papa, I have been happy, ah, so happy!” says Madelon, half crying, and nestling closer to him; “but why do you talk so?  What do you mean?”

“You will think of all our travels together, what pretty placed we have visited, all the fete days we have spent; and you will remember that, whatever else I may or may not have done, I have always tried to make you happy, and to be a good papa to my little one.  Promise me that, Madelon.”

“I promise it, papa,” she said.  “How could I forget?  Why should I not remember?  Why do you talk to me in this way, papa?  Are you very ill?”

“Very ill,” he replied, holding her tighter to him, “so ill that all those happy days are come to an end for me, and for you, too, ma petite; we shall never go about again together.  You—­you—­” his voice broke with a sort of groan, but he went on again directly, “I wonder what my little Madelon will be like when she grows into a great girl?  I should have liked to have seen you, my little one.  I wonder if you will be tall—­I dare say you will—­for your mother was tall, and your face is very like hers.”

“Am I like her, papa?”

“Very,” he said, stroking her wavy hair, with his feeble fingers; “your eyes—­yes, you have eyes that resemble hers exactly, and sometimes I have thought that when you grew up it would be almost like seeing her over again—­for you know I did love her,” he added, in a lower tone, turning his head restlessly on the pillow, “though they said I did not.  I never meant her to die alone; they might have known that.  I wish—­ Bah!  I am forgetting——­”

“What did you say, papa?”

“Nothing,” he answered; “I think I was forgetting where I was.  How dark it is growing! you must light the candles soon.  I must look at you again; you know I want to see your eyes, and smile, and pretty hair once more.  And you, my little one, you will not forget my face?  Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he said, with a sudden pain in his voice; “I cannot bear it.  I have never made you cry before:  have I, my child?”

“Never, never,” she said, stifling her tears desperately.