r meet again.
Don't laugh at me if I tell you a dream I had last night; I
dreamt that..." Below these words the page had been destroyed,
but there was more written on the other side, and Madelon read
on:

"... no doubt tired of all this about my love and regrets and
sympathy, and you have heard it all before, have you not? Only
believe it, Magdalen, for it comes from my heart. I think
sometimes from your letters that you doubt it, that you doubt
me; never do that--trust me when I say that my love for you is
a part of myself, that can only end with life and
consciousness. Well, let us talk of something else. I am so
glad to hear that your baby thrives; it was good of you to
wish to give it my name, but your husband was quite right in
saying it should be called Madeleine after you, and I shall
love it all the better. I already feel as if I had a
possession in it, and if big Maud will not come to me, why
then I shall have to put up with little Maud, and insist on
her coming to pay me a visit some day. But you must come too,
Magdalen; your room is all ready for you, it has been prepared
ever since I came into this house, and if I could see your
baby in the little empty bed in my nursery I think it would
take away some of the heartache that looking at it gives me. I
am writing a dismal letter instead of a cheery one, such as I
ought to send you in your solitude; but the rain it is
raining, and the wind it is blowing, and when all looks so
gray and forlorn outside, one is apt to be haunted by the
sound of small feet and chattering voices; you also, do you
not know what that is? I am alone too, to-day, for Hor..."

Here the sentence broke off abruptly; the edges of the paper
were all charred and brown; one could fancy that the letter
had been condemned to the flames, and then that this page had
been rescued, as if the possessor could not bear to part with
all the loving words.

It was like a sigh from the past. Still holding the paper in
her hand, Madelon leant her head against the window-frame and
looked out. The sun had set, the trees were blowing about,
black against the clear pale yellow of the evening sky,
overhead stars were shining faintly here and there, the wind
was sighing and scattering the faint-scented petals of the
over-blown roses. Half unconsciously, Madelon felt that the
scene, the hour, were in harmony with the pathos of the brown,
faded words, like a chord struck in unison with the key-note
of a mou