The American artist, too, left
Florence about this time for a visit to Rome; and during his
absence the _atelier_ was closed, and wandering through churches
and picture galleries were exchanged for long excursions into
the country with her father; by degrees dreams, fancies,
visions floated away, and Madelon became herself again.
She had gone through a phase, and one not altogether natural
to her, and which readily passed away with the abnormal
conditions that had occasioned it. She was by no means one of
those dreamy, thoughtful, often melancholy children who
startle us by the precocious grasp of their intellect, by
their intuitive perception of truths which we had deemed far
above their comprehension. Madelon's precocity was of quite
another order. In her quick, impulsive, energetic little mind
there was much that was sensitive and excitable, little that
was morbid or unhealthy. One might see that, with her, action
would always willingly take the place of reflection; that her
impulses would have the strength of inspirations; that she
would be more ready to receive impressions than to reason upon
them.
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