Promise me that, Madelon."
"I promise it, papa," she said. "How could I forget? Why
should I not remember? Why do you talk to me in this way,
papa? Are you very ill?"
"Very ill," he replied, holding her tighter to him, "so ill
that all those happy days are come to an end for me, and for
you, too, _ma petite;_ we shall never go about again together.
You--you--" his voice broke with a sort of groan, but he went on
again directly, "I wonder what my little Madelon will be like
when she grows into a great girl? I should have liked to have
seen you, my little one. I wonder if you will be tall--I dare
say you will--for your mother was tall, and your face is very
like hers."
"Am I like her, papa?"
"Very," he said, stroking her wavy hair, with his feeble
fingers; "your eyes--yes, you have eyes that resemble hers
exactly, and sometimes I have thought that when you grew up it
would be almost like seeing her over again--for you know I did
love her," he added, in a lower tone, turning his head
restlessly on the pillow, "though they said I did not. I never
meant her to die alone; they might have known that.
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