She would have known
that in taking little Madaline from Castledene she was destroying her
last chance of ever being owned or claimed by her parents; she would
have understood that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was
committing a most cruel act. But she thought only of how she loved her.
Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her daughter's
happiness. If she was really so happy, why did she spend long hours in
reverie--why sit with folded hands, looking with such sad eyes at the
passing clouds? That did not look like happiness. Why those heavy sighs,
and the color that went and came like light and shade? It was strange
happiness. After a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke
voluntarily of her husband. She would answer any questions put to
her--she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her
own accord she never once named him. That did not look like happiness.
She even once, in answer to her mother's questions, described Beechgrove
to her--told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she
told her of the gorgeous Titian--the woman with rubies like blood
shining on her white neck.
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