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.