Well, let us talk of something else. I am so
glad to hear that your baby thrives; it was good of you to
wish to give it my name, but your husband was quite right in
saying it should be called Madeleine after you, and I shall
love it all the better. I already feel as if I had a
possession in it, and if big Maud will not come to me, why
then I shall have to put up with little Maud, and insist on
her coming to pay me a visit some day. But you must come too,
Magdalen; your room is all ready for you, it has been prepared
ever since I came into this house, and if I could see your
baby in the little empty bed in my nursery I think it would
take away some of the heartache that looking at it gives me. I
am writing a dismal letter instead of a cheery one, such as I
ought to send you in your solitude; but the rain it is
raining, and the wind it is blowing, and when all looks so
gray and forlorn outside, one is apt to be haunted by the
sound of small feet and chattering voices; you also, do you
not know what that is? I am alone too, to-day, for Hor..."
Here the sentence broke off abruptly; the edges of the paper
were all charred and brown; one could fancy that the letter
had been condemned to the flames, and then that this page had
been rescued, as if the possessor could not bear to part with
all the loving words.
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