nd let in the tepid evening breeze, and the faded
light of the dying day; carriages and carts were rattling in
the street below, shrill voices came from the opposite houses
where lights were appearing here and there; high up in the
serene grey-blue sky a few reddened clouds had caught the last
gleams of the setting sun.

"Madelon," said M. Linders, roused by the noise she had made
in opening the shutters.

A sudden throb of joy came over her as she heard his voice
again, and she went swiftly and stood by his bedside.

"Are you better, papa?" she said, putting her two little cool
hands into one of his, hot with fever.

"We are alone, are we not?" he answered, looking feebly
around. "Come and sit up here by me. Can you jump up? That is
right," as she climbed up and nestled close to him, her feet
tucked under the sheet; "here, _petite_, let me put my arm round
you."

He raised himself with an effort, and passed his arm round
her, so that she could lay her head on his shoulder; and then
in answer to her question,--

"No, I am not better," he said, "and I do not suppose I ever
shall be better now. But never mind that," as she raised her
head suddenly, and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes,
"let us talk a little, Madelon. We have always been happy
together; have we not, my child?"

"Ah! yes, papa."

"And later, when you are grown into a woman--as you will be,
you know, by-and-by--and you think of the years when you were
when you were a little girl, you will like to recall them;
will you not, Madelon? You will remember that they were
happy?"

"Yes, papa, I have been happy, ah, so happy!" says Madelon,
half crying, and nestling closer to him; "but why do you talk
so? What do you mean?"

"You will think of all our travels together, what pretty
placed we have visited, all the _fete_ days we have spent; and
you will remember that, whatever else I may or may not have
done, I have always tried to make you happy, and to be a good
papa to my little one. Promise me that, Madelon."

"I promise it, papa," she said. "How could I forget? Why
should I not remember? Why do you talk to me in this way,
papa? Are you very ill?"

"Very ill," he replied, holding her tighter to him, "so ill
that all those happy days are come to an end for me, and for
you, too, _ma petite;_ we shall never go about again together.
You--you--" his voice broke with a sort of groan, but he went on
again directly, "I wonder what my little Mad