“And always will be there,” she said softly, as she felt that the terrible end had been the expiation, and with the thought that in the future Harry Vine, forgiven, purified—the Harry of the past—would always be now the frank, manly youth she idealised, she dropped off to sleep—a deep, restful slumber, from which she started with the impression full upon her that she had only just closed her eyes. There must have been some noise to awaken her, and she sat up listening, to see that it was day.
“Yes? Did any one knock?” she said aloud, for the terror was upon her now, one which had often haunted her during the unnerving past days—that her father had been taken worse.
All silent.
Then a sharp pattering noise at her window, as if some one had thrown up some shot or pebbles. She hurried out of bed, and ran to the window to peep through the slit beside the blind, to see below in the street Liza, the Vines’ maid, staring up.
“Louise—ill? or Mr Vine?” thought Madelaine, as she quickly unfastened and opened the window.
“Yes, Liza. Quick! what is it?”
“Oh, miss, I’ve been awake all night, and, not knowing what to do, and so I come on.”
“Is Mr Vine ill?”
“No, ’m; Miss Louise.”
“Ill? I’ll come on at once.”