asleep."

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-for