hard to bear.  I think sometimes that to die for those we love would be too easy a thing; to suffer for them and with them—­would not that be better?  And I do suffer with you in my heart—­do you not believe it?  But of what good is it? it cannot remove one pang or lighten your burthen for a single moment.  This is folly, you will say; well, perhaps it is; you know I like to be sentimental sometimes, and I am in just such a mood to-night.  Is it folly too to say, that after all the years since we parted, I still miss you? and yet so it is.  Sometimes sitting by the fire of an evening, or looking out at the twilight garden, I seem to hear a voice and a step, and half expect to see my pretty Maud—­you tell me you are altered, but I cannot realize it, and yet, of course, you must be; we are both growing old women now—­we two girls will never meet again.  Don’t laugh at me if I tell you a dream I had last night; I dreamt that...”  Below these words the page had been destroyed, but there was more written on the other side, and Madelon read on: 

“... no doubt tired of all this about my love and regrets and sympathy, and you have heard it all before, have you not?  Only believe it, Magdalen, for it comes from my heart.  I think sometimes from your letters that you doubt it, that you doubt me; never do that—­trust me when I say that my love for you is a part of myself, that can only end with life and consciousness.  Well, let us talk of something else.  I am so glad to hear that your baby thrives; it was good of you to wish to give it my name, but your husband was quite right in saying it should be called Madeleine after you, and I shall love it all the better.  I already feel as if I had a possession in it, and if big Maud will not come to me, why then I shall have to put up with little Maud, and insist on her coming to pay me a visit some day.  But you must come too, Magdalen; your room is all ready for you, it has been prepared ever since I came into this house, and if I could see your baby in the little empty bed in my nursery I think it would take away some of the heartache that looking at it gives me.  I am writing a dismal letter instead of a cheery one, such as I ought to send you in your solitude; but the rain it is raining, and the wind it is blowing, and when all looks so gray and forlorn outside, one is apt to be haunted by the sound of small feet and chattering voices; you also, do you not know what that is?  I am alone too, to-day, for Hor...”

Here the sentence broke off abruptly; the edges of the paper were all charred and brown; one could fancy that the letter had been condemned to the flames, and then that this page had been rescued, as if the possessor could not bear to part with all the loving words.