Madelon's fixed idea had returned to her with redoubled force
since her illness. Her one failure had only added intensity to
her purpose since her first sense of discouragement had passed
away; there was something in the child's nature that refused
to acknowledge defeat as such, and she was only eager to begin
again. Our poor little Madelon, with her strange experiences
and inexperiences, her untutored faiths and instincts, shaking
off all rule, ignorant of all conventionalities, only bent,
amidst difficulties, and obstacles, and delays, on steadily
working towards one fixed and well-defined end--surely, tried
by any of the received laws of polite society, concerning
correct, well-educated young ladies of thirteen, she would be
found sadly wanting. Shall we blame her? or shall we not
rather, with a kindly compassion, try for a while to
understand from what point of view she had learnt to look at
life, and to arrive at some comprehension of, and sympathy
with her.
In the meantime, though it was evident she could do nothing
till she was well again, an old perplexity was beginning to
trouble Madelon; what was she to do without money? Once, a
strange chance--which, with a touch of convent superstition
that had been grafted on her mind, she was half disposed to
look upon as miraculous--had provided the requisite sum, but
the most sanguine hopes could hardly point to the repetition
of such a miracle or chance, and during long hours, when
Jeanne-Marie was attending to her customers below, or sitting
at her side, knitting, Madelon's brain was for ever working on
this old problem that had proved so hard before, when she sat
thinking it out in the convent cell.
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