Whilst Madelon has been wearying
out her little heart and brain in the pursuit of her self-
imposed task, the world has not been, and is not, standing
still, we may be sure, and her small wheel of life is somehow
kept in motion by the great revolving circle of events,
however little she may think of, or heed them. Sebastopol has
fallen in these last months, the Crimean war is at an end, and
all the world that was discussing battles and sieges when
Horace Graham last parted with Madelon one September
afternoon, is talking of treaties and peace now, as the allied
armies move homewards from the East. And--which indeed would
have had more interest for Madelon could she have known it--
Graham himself, after more than two years' hard work, had been
wounded in one of the last skirmishes; and with this wound,
and the accompanying fever, had lain for weeks very near to
death in the Scutari hospital, to be sent home at last,
invalided to England. While Madelon had been slowly recovering
from her fever in her little out-of-the-world refuge at Le
Trooz, Graham had been gaining health and strength in a
pleasant English home, with a sister to nurse and pet him,
nephews and nieces to make much of him, and the rosiest cheeks
and bluest eyes in the world to fall in love with, as he lay
idly on the lawn through the summer days.
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