Her hat had fallen off, and the rain came down upon
her uncovered head, wetting the short hair as it was blown
about by the wind, drenching her thin little cloak and old
black silk frock. A very pitiful sight as she sat there, a
desolate, homeless child, on this dark, wet autumn night, deaf
in her excess of childish rage to Horace's words, shaking him
off with wilful, passionate gestures whenever he touched her--a
very perplexing sight to the young man, who stood and watched
her, uncertain what to say or do next.
At last she grew a little quieter, and then he spoke to her in
a tone of authority:--
"You must get up, Madelon; you will get quite wet if you stay
here."
He took hold of her hand, and held it firmly when she tried to
loosen it, and at last she got up slowly. As she rose, she
became conscious of the wet and cold, and was completely
sobered as she stood shivering at Horace's side.
"My poor little Madelon!" he said, in the kind voice she
remembered from old times. "You are quite wet and so cold, we
must not stay here; tell me where you are going?"
"I don't know," said Madelon, beginning to cry again.
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