Ah! what
would be the use of getting well and strong again, if that
were all that life had in store for her? "Why did I not die?"
thinks the poor child, tossing restlessly from side to side.
"I wish I was dead! Ah! why did I not die? I wish I had never
been born!" To her, as to all inexperienced minds, life
appeared as a series of arbitrary events, rather than as a
chain of dependent circumstances ceaselessly modifying each
other, and she could not conceive the possibility of any
gradual change of position being brought about in the slow
course of years. The long succession of grey, weary days,
which she had lately taught herself to consider as a path that
must be traversed, but which would still lead ultimately to a
future of most supreme happiness, suddenly seemed to terminate
in a grave black as death itself, from which there could be no
escape. "If papa were here," thinks Madelon, "he would never
allow it; he would never leave me in this horrible place, he
would take me away. Oh! papa, papa, why did you die?" And
burying her face in the pillow, she began to sob and cry in
her weakness and despair.
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