friend nodded approval, and, best of all, it was always to his Madelon that M. Linders turned in his most weary moments—­from her that he liked to receive drinks and medicine; and she it was who, as he declared, arranged his pillows and coverings more comfortably than anyone else.  In delirium he asked for her continually; his eyes sought her when she was not in the room, and lighted up when she came with her little noiseless step to his bedside.  The old German, who had had a strong dislike to, and prejudice against this man, took almost a liking to him, as he noted the great love existing between him and his little daughter.

The American did not return till M. Linders was nearly well again, and thinking of departure.  Madelon was in despair at the idea of leaving Florence; it had been more like home to her than any place she had yet known, and it almost broke her heart to think of parting with her old German friend; but M. Linders was impatient to be gone.  He wanted change of air, he said, after his illness; but, indeed, had other reasons which he proclaimed less openly, but which were far more imperative, and made him anxious to pay an earlier visit to Germany this year than was usual with him.  Certain speculations, on the success of which he had counted, had failed, so that a grand coup at Homburg or Baden seemed no less necessary than desirable to set him straight again with the world, and he accordingly fixed on a day towards the end of April for their departure.

The American made a festive little supper the evening before in his atelier, but it was generally felt to be a melancholy failure, for not even the artist’s rather forced gaiety, nor M. Linders’ real indifference, could enliven it.  As for the old German, he sat there, saying little, eating less, and smoking a great deal; and Madelon at his side was speechless, only rousing herself later in the evening to coax him into playing once more all her favourite tunes.  Everyone, except, perhaps, M. Linders, felt more or less sorry at the breaking up of a pleasant little society which had lasted for some months, and the violinist almost felt as if he were being separated from his own child.  Madelon wished him good-bye that night, but she ran upstairs very early the next morning to see him once more before starting.

The old man was greatly moved; he was standing looking sadly out of the window when she came in, and when he saw her in her little travelling cloak, the tears began to run down his rugged old cheeks.

“God bless thee, my little one!” he said.  “I shall miss thee sorely—­but thou wilt not forget me?”

“Never, never!” cries Madelon, with a little sob, and squeezing the kind hands that held hers so tightly.

“And if I should never see thee again,” said the German, in broken accents, “if—­if—­remember, I——­” He hesitated and stammered, and M. Linders’ voice was heard calling Madelon.

“I must go,” she said, “papa is calling me; but I will never forget you—­never; ah! you have been so good, so kind to me.  See here,” she said, unclosing one of her hands which she had kept tightly shut, and showing the little green and gold fish Horace Graham had given her years before, “I promised never to part with this, but I have nothing else—­and—­and I love you so much—­will you have it?”