"What is it now, Madelon?" he said.
"You are so good," she said. "When I am unhappy, you always comfort me—it has always been so——"
"Do I comfort you?" said Graham—"why, that is good news,
Madelon."
"Ah! yes," she cried, in her impulsive way, "you have always been good to me—how can I forget it? That night when papa died, and I was so unhappy all alone—and since then, how often—"
Graham turned away, and walked twice up and down the room. There was a distant sound of music, and footsteps, and voices, but people had drifted away into the ball-room again, and they were alone. He came back to where Madelon was sitting.
"If you think so, indeed, Madelon," he said, "will you not let it be so always? Do you think you can trust me enough to let me always take care of you? I can ask for nothing dearer in life."
"What do you mean?" she cried, glancing up at him startled.
"Do you not understand?" he said, looking at her, and taking one her little hands in his—"do you not understand that one may have a secret hidden away for years, and never suspected even by oneself, perhaps, till all at once one discovers it? I think I must have had some such secret, Madelon, and that I never guessed at it till a few months since, when I found a little girl that I knew years ago, grown up into somebody that I love better than all the world——"
"Ah! stop!" she cried, jumping up, and pulling her hand away.
"You are good and kind, but it is not possible that you—ah!
Monsieur Horace, I am not worthy!"
"Not worthy! Good heavens, Madelon, you not worthy!" He paused for a moment. "What is not possible?" he went on. "Perhaps I am asking too much. I am but a battered old fellow in these days, I know, and if, indeed, you cannot care enough for me——"