Madelon was too much accustomed to late expectant vigils to be
startled; and, indeed, in her drowsy state, her first
impression was only the familiar one of a welcome arrival. "Me
voici, papa!" she cried, jumping up promptly; and then she saw
the young man coming towards her, and with a suddenly revived
consciousness of the still, white-sheeted form on the bed, she
sank down on her low seat again, the sensation of blank misery
all revived.
Graham, on his side, was not a little surprised at the small
figure that had started up to meet him; he had fancied her in
bed hours ago. He came up to where she was sitting, a most
sad, disconsolate little Madelon, all huddled together, her
hands clasped round her knees, her eyes shining through a
short wavy tangle of brown hair, all rough and disordered.
"Don't you think you would be better in bed?" says Horace, in
his kind, cheery voice.
"No," she answered abruptly; she was so miserable, so sore at
heart with the sudden disappointment, poor child, and Graham
had been the cause of it.
"But I am afraid you will be ill to-morrow if you sit there
all night," said Graham; "do you know what time it is?"
"No," she said again; and then, as he came a step nearer, she
gave a stamp on the floor, and turned her back on him.
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