Madelon
recognised her in an instant. "Oh! Madame Bertrand!" she
cried, flinging her arms round her, "don't you know me? I am
Madeleine Linders."
Madame Bertrand stepped back, a little overwhelmed by this
vehement salutation, and then,--
"Madeleine Linders?" she cried. "What! little Mademoiselle
Madelon, who used to come here so often with her papa?"
"Yes, I am little Madelon," she answered; and indeed the sight
of the kind old face, the sound of the cheery, familiar voice,
made her feel quite a small Madelon again. "You have not
forgotten me, have you, Madame Bertrand?"
"Indeed I have not, though you have grown into such a tall
young lady. But why have you not been here for such a long
time? Where is your papa?"
"Ah! Madame," says Madelon, her sense of utter discouragement
gaining ground again, as the first flush of pleasure at the
sight of her old friend died away, "I am very unhappy. Papa
died nearly three years ago, and I have been in a convent ever
since, with Aunt Therese; but Aunt Therese is dead too; and
they said that I was to be a nun, so I ran away.
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