M. Linders was lying with his head supported
on a heap of pillows: his forehead was bandaged where the deep
cut had been given just above the brow, and he looked deadly
pale; his eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, and
Madelon thought that, as Graham had told her, he was asleep;
but it was, in fact, rather a kind of stupor, from which
louder noises than the sound of her soft footfall would have
failed to rouse him. She went on tiptoe up to his bedside, and
stood gazing at him for a moment, and then with a swift,
silent movement buried her face in her hands, and burst into
an agony of crying.
"He is very ill--oh! is he going to die?" was all the answer
she could give in a hoarse whisper to Graham's attempts at
comfort, trying the while to smother her sobs, so that they
might not break out and wake her father.
"I hope not--I hope not," said Horace, quite grieved at the
sight of her distress; "but you must not cry so, Madelon; how
are you to nurse him and help him to get well again if you
do?"
She stopped sobbing a little at this, and tried to check her
tears.
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