"In the first place, it can make no difference
to any one that knows you who your father was; and then you
are here as Mrs. Treherne's niece----"
"I am my father's daughter!" cried Madelon, blazing up, "and I
must not own it. Yes, yes, I understand it all. As Mrs.
Treherne's niece I may be received; but not as---- Oh, papa,
papa!" her voice suddenly breaking down, "why did you die? why
did you leave me all alone?"
Graham stood silent. He felt so keenly for her; he had so
dreaded for her the time when this knowledge of her father's
true character must come home to her. In his wide sympathy
with everything connected with her, he had regrets of that
poor father also, dead years ago, who in his last hours had so
plainly foreseen some such moment as this, and yet not quite,
either.
"Monsieur Horace," Madelon went on wildly, "I did so love
papa, and he loved me--ah, you cannot imagine how much! When I
think of it now, when I see other fathers with their children,
how little they seem to care for them in comparison, I wonder
at his love for me. He nursed me, he played with me, he took
such care of me, he made me so happy.
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