Out of the atmosphere of love, and suspicion, and jealousy that was stifling her, into the hall, up the shallow staircase to the long matted passage which ran the length of the house, the bed-rooms opening on to it on either side. Madelon paced it rapidly for some minutes, then opened a door at the end, and entered the nursery. Nothing stifling here; a large, cool, airy room, with white blinds drawn down, subduing the full moonlight to a soft gloom, in which one could discern two little beds, each with its small occupant, whose regular breathing told that they had done, for ever, with the cares and sorrows of at least that day.
Madelon stood looking at them, the excitement that had made her cheeks burn, and her pulses throb, subsiding gradually in presence of this subdued, unconscious life. She smoothed the sheets and counterpane of one little sleeper, who, with bare limbs tossed about, was lying right across the bed, all the careful tuckings-up wofully disarranged; and then, passing on, went into an inner room, that opened out of the larger nursery. The window was open here to the cool, grey sky, the moonlight shining in on the white curtains, the little white bed at the further end.
"Is that you, Cousin Madelon?" says Madge, raising a brown, shaggy head as Madelon softly opened the door. "Won't you come in, please? I am not asleep."
Madelon came in, and went to the window. It looked down upon the lawn, with the still tree-shadows lying across it, and some other shadows that were not still—those of two people walking up and down, talking earnestly. She could distinguish Monsieur Horace's voice, and then Maria's in answer, and then Monsieur Horace again, and a sudden pang seemed to seize the poor child's heart, and hold it tight in its grasp. How happy they were, those two, talking together down there, whilst she was all alone up her, looking on!
"Do come here, Cousin Madelon," said Madge's impatient voice from the bed. "I want you to tuck me up, and give me a kiss."
Madelon went up to the bed, and kneeling down by it, laid her cheek wearily by Madge's on the pillow. The child passed her arm round her neck, and hugged her tight, and the innocent, loving caress soothed the girl's sore heart, for the moment, more than anything else could have done.
"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."