Ten minutes later, a woman of the village, coming in to see
the preparations for the funeral of Monsieur N----, lately one
of the great proprietors of the neighbourhood, nearly stumbled
over Madelon's prostrate form. She started back, half uttering
an exclamation of surprise and alarm; then, seeing that it was
a child who was lying so still upon the stone floor, she knelt
down by her, laid her head in her lap, and began rubbing her
hands. Madelon was not quite unconscious, apparently, for she
moved her head uneasily, and uttered a low moan. "She is not
dead, at any rate," muttered the woman, still chafing the cold
little hands, while she studied the small white face, the
short rings of hair just appearing under the hat all crushed
in her fall, the bundle lying at her side, and the worn frock
and cloak soaked with rain. "I wonder if she is alone?" added
the woman to herself. She glances round the empty church, then
gently laying Madelon on the floor again, with a cushion to
support her head, she went to the door, and peered out into
the rain for a few moments; then, returning, without calling
for help, or summoning any one, she stooped down, took Madelon
in her arms--which, indeed, she was well able to do, for she
was a tall, strong woman, between thirty and forty, and the
child was very slight and thin after her recent illness--and
carried her out of the church, down the street, towards the
end of the village.
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