CHAPTER VIII.
Madelon overhears a Conversation.
Amidst the springing flowers, the twitter of pairing birds,
and the bursting of green leaves through the brown, downy
husks, in the bounteous April weather, Madelon began to
recover rapidly. She was nursed with kindness and care, if not
exactly with tenderness, by Soeur Lucie; but tenderness our
little black sheep had long since learnt not to expect in the
convent, and she hardly missed it now. It was in the first
days of her convalescence that she heard of the death of her
aunt Therese, through some chance remark of one of the Sisters
who came into her cell. Had it not been for this, they would
have kept it from her longer; but the news scarcely affected
her at all. Her aunt had shown her no affection in these last
two years that they had lived under the same roof, and, on the
few occasions on which Madelon had come in contact with her,
the pale, cold face, and severe manner of the nun had inspired
her niece with a dread, which only lacked opportunity to
become a more active dislike. She heard the news then with
apathy, and was still too languid and weak to think of the
loss in reference to herself, or to realise that, so far as
she knew, she had now no relation in the world.
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