So wearily did Madelon's mind revolve, dwelling most of
all on that promise made so long ago; and as she realized the
possibility of her never being able to fulfil it at all, she
became possessed with a feverish desire to get up that very
moment and set about it. If--if--ah, supposing she were to run
away--Aunt Therese is not here now, and she would not be afraid
of the other nuns finding her, she would hide herself too well
for that--supposing she were to run away, go to Spa, make the
fortune, and then write to Monsieur Horace? Would not that be
an idea?
When Soeur Lucie came in an hour later, to look after Madelon,
she found her fast asleep; the traces of tears were still on
her cheeks, and the pillow and bedclothes were all disarranged
and tossed about again, but she was lying quite quietly now.
Soeur Lucie stood for a moment, looking down upon the child's
white face, that had grown so small and thin. Her hair had
been all cut off during her illness, and curled in soft brown
rings all over her head, as when she was a little child, and
indeed there was something most childlike in the peaceful
little face, which had a look of repose that it seldom wore
when the wistful brown eyes were open, with their expression
of always longing and seeking for something beyond their ken.
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