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--