What he could do, he did, and it was more than he thought.
Madelon's sudden devotion to him, of which indeed he knew and
suspected nothing, was of infinite service to her in her first
bitterness of her grief, by giving a new current to her ideas,
whilst it did away with the sense of lonely desolation that
had nearly overpowered her in that first dark hour. In her
ardent little nature there was a necessity for loving, even
stronger perhaps than for being loved, a certain enthusiasm, a
capacity for devotion that had opportunely found an object in
the time of extreme need. For a short hour it had seemed to
her as if life itself had come to an end with her father's
death; the darkness and vagueness of the future had crushed
her down, all the more that she had scarcely comprehended what
was the weight that so oppressed her--and then a moment had
changed it all; a kind word spoken, a kind face looking down
upon her, a friendly hand stretched out, and the vague terrors
had vanished. From that time Horace Graham's presence was
bliss to our Madelon; when she was unhappy, she dried her
tears if he consoled her; if he was out, she sat listening for
his returning footsteps; if he was busy, she was content to
remain for hours with her book on her knee, her chin propped
on her hands, her wistful eyes following his every movement.
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