"Little Madge," she said, drawing the child closer to her, as
if the pressure of the little, soft, warm limbs had power to
stop the aching at her heart. "Oh! Madge, I wish I were no
bigger and no older than you. One is happier so."
"Do you?" said Madge, wondering. "I should like to be grown-
up, as tall and beautiful as you are, and to sing like you.
You were singing just now downstairs; I opened the window, and
could hear you quite plainly. Why did you stop so soon?"
"It was hot," said Madelon, her face flushing up again at the
recollection; "and one is not always in the mood for singing,
you know, Madge."
"Ah, but do sing me just one song, now, Cousin Madelon--just
here, before I go to sleep."
Still kneeling, with Madge's head nestling on her shoulder,
Madelon began to sing a little half-gay, half-melancholy
French romance of many verses. The tune seemed to grow more
and more plaintive as it went on, a pathetic, monotonous
chant, rising and falling. Before it was ended, Madge's hold
had relaxed, her eyes were closed--she was sound asleep for the
night.
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