She picked it up, and took it to the window to examine it. It
was the fragment of a half-burned letter, a half sheet of
foreign paper closely written in a small, clear hand; but only
a fragment, for there was neither beginning nor ending. It was
in English, but Madelon remembered enough of the language to
make out the meaning, and this was what she read in the fading
light.
It began abruptly thus:--
"... cannot come to me, and that I must not come to you, that it
would do no good, and that M. Linders would not like it. Well,
I must admit, I suppose, but if you could imagine, Magdalen,
how I long to see your face, to hear your voice again! It is
hard to be parted for so long, and I weary, oh, how I weary
for you sometimes. To think that you are unhappy, and that I
cannot comfort you; that you also sometimes wish for me, and
that I cannot come to you--all this seems at times very hard to
bear. I think sometimes that to die for those we love would be
too easy a thing; to suffer for them and with them--would not
that be better? And I do suffer with you in my heart--do you
not believe it? But of what good is it? it cannot remove one
pang or lighten your burthen for a single moment.
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