It was like a sigh from the past. Still holding the paper in
her hand, Madelon leant her head against the window-frame and
looked out. The sun had set, the trees were blowing about,
black against the clear pale yellow of the evening sky,
overhead stars were shining faintly here and there, the wind
was sighing and scattering the faint-scented petals of the
over-blown roses. Half unconsciously, Madelon felt that the
scene, the hour, were in harmony with the pathos of the brown,
faded words, like a chord struck in unison with the key-note
of a mournful song. As she gazed, the tears began to gather in
her eyes; she tried to read the letter again, and the big
drops fell on the paper, already stained with other tears that
had been dried ever so many years ago. But it was already too
dark, she could hardly see the words; she laid the paper down
and began to cry.
It was not the first part of the letter that moved her so
much, though there was something in her that responded to the
devoted, loving words; but she had not the key to their
meaning. She knew nothing of her mother's life, nor of her
causes for unhappiness; and for the moment she did not draw
the inferences that to an older and more experienced person
would have been at once obvious.
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