“I cannot meet him,” said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; “and,” he added to himself, “I could not bear it.”
“He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering,” said Madelaine as she laid her hand upon the stricken man’s arm. “‘Tell him I beg he will come to me,’ he said,” she whispered. “You will not refuse, Mr Vine?”
“No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?”
“Yes, father, I will go with you,” she said slowly; and in a few minutes she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat holding Madelaine’s hand.
As she entered he rose and met her.
“Louise, my child, must we go?” he said feebly. “I feel as if it were almost more than I can bear. Must we go?”
“Yes,” she replied gravely; “we must go.”
Vine bowed his head.
“Come, my child,” he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half-way to the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.
“Going out?” she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.