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Title: Friendless Felicia
        Or, a little city sparrow

Author: Eleanora H. Stooke

Release date: June 23, 2023 [eBook #71028]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1908


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDLESS FELICIA ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "MY CHILD, WHY ARE YOU HIDING THERE?"]



                  Friendless Felicia

                          OR

                A Little City Sparrow


                          BY
                  ELEANORA H. STOOKE

                      Author of

 "Little Maid Marigold," "Mousey," "Salome's Burden,"

      "Angel's Brother," "The Moat House," etc.



               WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS



                        London
                 S. W. Partridge & Co.
               8 and 9 Paternoster Row



CONTENTS

CHAPTER


    I. AN ATTIC HOME

   II. MRS. M'COSH GOES UPSTAIRS

  III. WHITE LILIES

   IV. DESOLATION

    V. LION'S FIND

   VI. FELICIA AND HER GRANDFATHER

  VII. THE FAMILY AT THE VICARAGE

 VIII. UNCLE GUY

   IX. FIRST DAYS AT THE PRIORY

    X. A GREAT SURPRISE

   XI. UNCLE GUY'S TEMPER

  XII. FELICIA SPEAKS OUT

 XIII. ONE SATURDAY

  XIV. DORIS IS JEALOUS

   XV. UNDER THE ARBUTUS TREE

  XVI. DORIS AND FELICIA

 XVII. AN ANXIOUS SUNDAY

XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED HOLIDAY

  XIX. FELICIA'S STORY

   XX. FELICIA IN TROUBLE

  XXI. THE STORM

 XXII. CONCLUSION


Friendless Felicia

CHAPTER I

An Attic Home

"YOU won't be able to see much longer, Felicia, and I'm sure you're
trying your eyes dreadfully, now. Put up your work, child. Perhaps
to-morrow I shall be strong enough to help a bit."

Felicia, a little girl of about twelve years old, who sat industriously
working a sewing machine at a round table close to the window, finished
running together the two lengths of print she was in the midst of
joining, and then, dropping her hands into her lap with a gesture
expressive of weariness, looked at her mother with a smile as she
exclaimed in a tone of relief—

"There! I've finished for to-night. I've not done such a bad day's work
after all."

"I'm glad to hear that; and I'm very glad you've finished, for the
noise of the machine does make my head ache so badly, it gets on my
nerves, so that even in the night I hear the 'whirr-whirr-whirr'—it
won't let me sleep."

"Poor mother!"

The little girl's voice was full of intense sadness and regret, as her
soft, blue eyes anxiously scanned the pallid countenance of her mother,
who lay—worn almost to a shadow—on the bed which occupied one corner of
the room. In this attic of a house let in tenements, situated in a side
street in the heart of the city of Bristol, Mrs. Renford and her little
daughter had lived for the past two years, supported by the earnings of
the former as a blouse and apron maker.

A few days previously, Mrs. Renford, who had been ailing for some
time, had fallen ill, and much to Felicia's alarm did not appear to be
getting better, though she was lying in bed—to pick up her strength,
she herself said. Felicia had desired to call in the parish doctor, but
her mother had strenuously opposed this suggestion, declaring every day
she would be stronger on the morrow; meanwhile, work had to be done to
supply money for daily bread, and the little girl was obliged to do it,
labouring from daybreak to dusk at the sewing machine. How thankful
she was that it was summer! Though it was intensely hot in their attic
home, that was better than having to suffer cold, as they certainly
would have done had it been winter, for where would the money have come
from to purchase coals?

"It's time I saw about supper," Felicia observed after a brief silence,
during which she had succeeded in mastering a strong inclination to
cry, for she was, in truth, very weary, and her right arm and hand
ached with turning the handle of the machine. "I wish I had something
nice to tempt your appetite, mother," she proceeded, as she went to a
cupboard and produced some bread and a small slice of butter, "you have
taken hardly anything to-day."

"I don't want anything to eat, my dear," was the reply, "but I could
enjoy a cup of tea."

"And you shall have it!" the little girl declared.

"But you've no hot water—"

"I can easily get some from Mrs. M'Cosh; she's sure to have her kettle
boiling, for she always cooks a supper for her husband, I don't mind
asking her a favour at all."

Having measured the tea into a brown earthenware teapot, Felicia nodded
encouragingly to her mother and left the attic, proceeding downstairs
to the second floor, where she rapped gently upon a closed door with
her knuckles.

"Come in," said a deep, gruff voice, which sounded like a man's, but
was, in reality, a woman's. Felicia opened the door and entered the
room—a comfortably furnished kitchen-sitting-room it was. Before the
fireplace stood Mrs. M'Cosh, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a broad,
red face, which usually wore a somewhat grim expression. A woman of
few words was Mrs. M'Cosh, but those words were generally much to the
point. She was frying liver and bacon for her husband's supper, giving
her best attention to the work in hand.

"Please, Mrs. M'Cosh," said Felicia, "could you oblige me with a little
boiling water? Mother fancies a cup of tea to-night."

"Help yourself, child," was the response; "but, first, put your teapot
on the stove to warm."

Felicia did so, whilst she watched Mrs. M'Cosh turn the liver in the
pan. How delicious it smelt! Poor Felicia, she had had nothing to eat
but bread thinly spread with butter that day.

"Mother better?" inquired Mrs. M'Cosh, glancing furtively at her
visitor.

Felicia shook her head mournfully, the tears rising to her blue eyes, a
choking lump in her throat.

"No appetite, I suppose?" continued her interrogator, "and little
enough to eat anyway. Humph! Blouse-making is badly paid—far better to
scrub for a living."

"Mother cannot scrub," said Felicia hastily; "she is not strong enough
for such hard work as that."

"Not brought up to it, I take it."

Mrs. M'Cosh had placed the frying-pan on one side, and was warming a
vegetable dish now; and as the teapot was hot, Felicia put the boiling
water to the tea. "Let it draw on the stove for a minute," advised Mrs.
M'Cosh, as she proceeded to slip several slices of liver and bacon into
the vegetable dish. "There now, your mother will have a good cup of
tea, and perhaps she will fancy a bit of my 'fry' for her supper," she
added, as she placed the cover on the vegetable dish and put it with
the teapot on a tray which she thrust into the little girl's hands.

"Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh!" gasped Felicia, quite overcome with astonishment and
gratitude, "how can I thank you?"

"Don't, child. Liver's cheap, and there's plenty left for my husband.
There, don't stop talking, but go to your mother. You can return the
dish to-morrow."

She pushed the little girl out of the room and shut the door upon her.
With flushed cheeks and eyes shining with gladness, Felicia climbed the
stairs, carrying the tray very carefully.

"See, mother, what Mrs. M'Cosh has given me!" she exclaimed excitedly
when she reached the attic. "Such a beautiful supper! Oh, isn't it kind
of her?"

"It is, indeed," the sick woman agreed, raising herself on her elbow,
and looking longingly at the covered dish. "What is it? It smells
delicious."

"Doesn't it? It's fried liver and bacon. Do you think you can eat some?"

The invalid thought she could, and, posted up in bed, she drank her
tea, which cheered and refreshed her greatly, and ate a little of the
"fry." But her appetite was poor, and by far the larger half of Mrs.
M'Cosh's present fell to the share of Felicia, who made an excellent
supper.

"What a dear good soul Mrs. M'Cosh is," said the little girl
gratefully; "and yet I used to be rather afraid of her—because she has
such a blunt way of speaking, and such a sharp way of looking at one, I
suppose."

"I have never had much to say to her," remarked Mrs. Renford, "for I
have always had the impression that, for some reason, she does not
approve of me. I remember once, soon after we came here, meeting her on
the stairs, and her asking me why I did not go out charring; and when I
told her I knew very little about housework, she cast such a scornful
glance at me. I am sure," the poor woman continued plaintively, "I
would gladly do charring if I could, for, though I've worked my best
with my needle these two years past, it's been hard to earn enough for
the necessaries of life, and only you and I know, Felicia, how short of
food we've been sometimes. If you hadn't helped me out of school hours
and proved yourself so clever with your needle, I don't know what we
should have done. Oh, I hope I shall soon be better and able to work
again!"

"I hope so, mother," Felicia replied. "If you are not better to-morrow
we really must have a doctor—"

"No, no!" the invalid interrupted. "A doctor would want me to go into a
hospital, or perhaps into the workhouse infirmary. I know he would, and
then we should be separated! Oh, I couldn't bear that! We've never been
parted, and—oh, may God forgive me if I've been a selfish mother!—I've
always set my face against that! Maybe it won't be long we shall have
together, anyway," she added in a lower tone.

"What do you mean, mother?" Felicia asked in a troubled voice, a look
of apprehension creeping into her eyes. "You don't mean—oh, you cannot
mean that you would give me up to my father's relations?"

"No, no! Never mind what I mean now. When I lost my husband I vowed
I would never give you up; and though, often since, I've thought I
perhaps acted unwisely and against your interests, I've never really
regretted the stand I took. I'm a poor creature at best now, Felicia;
but if only I'd not had that terrible illness two years ago, I should
have been able to bring you up and educate you as a lady. Oh, it's
very, very hard to think that God wills everything for the best."

"But He does, doesn't He, mother?"

"I try to think so, my dear, but I am afraid I am not a very brave
woman. Still, in my heart of hearts, I realise that God does know what
is best for us. 'Be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart,
all ye that hope in the Lord.' Yes, we must be of good courage."

Mrs. Renford was still sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, a
crimson shawl arranged around her shoulders over her night-dress. She
was a very pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, with small, delicate
features, and there was a bright, deceptive flush on her thin cheeks as
she conversed with her little daughter. Felicia thought how much better
her mother was looking to-night, and her spirits rose as she reassured
herself with the thought that she had taken a turn for the better, and
would soon be well again.

After the little girl had washed the supper things and tidied the
room—the floor around the spot where she had been seated at work all
day had been strewn with ends of cotton and scraps of print—she went
to the window, which was wide open to admit as much air as possible,
and looked out. The moon, like a golden globe, was high in the heavens,
and illuminated the roofs and chimney pots which, with a glimpse of the
sluggish river, comprised the view.

"It is a beautiful night," Felicia informed her mother as she raised
her tired eyes to the cloudless sky; "the air is so fresh, and the
river is shining like silver—who would think it is actually so dirty?
Oh, mother dear, you must make haste and get strong enough to go
out-of-doors, for one forgets it is summer, shut up here!"



CHAPTER II

Mrs. M'Cosh Goes Upstairs

"I AM afraid that poor woman up in the attic is in a bad state,"
remarked Mrs. M'Cosh to her husband half-an-hour after she had so
summarily dismissed Felicia; "I've not seen her for weeks, but the last
time I met her on the stairs I was struck by her appearance, she looked
as though a breath of wind would have blown her away, and now she's
laid up altogether."

"Dear me, dear me," responded Mr. M'Cosh, "that's sad—very."

Husband and wife were seated at the supper table. The former had
thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and was now dawdling over the drinking of
his second cup of tea. He was a small, wiry man—a mason by trade—with
a mild, clean-shaven face, thin, iron-gray hair, and a pair of light
blue eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh usually addressed him as "Master," and he
always spoke of her as "the missus," but it was the general impression
of outsiders that Mrs. M'Cosh was master and mistress too. However
that may have been, they were a united couple, for James M'Cosh was a
steady, hard-working man, and his wife was a thrifty, industrious woman
who made their home—the second storey of the house—a comfortable and
happy one.

"Yes, it's very sad," agreed Mrs. M'Cosh. She sat in silence for a few
minutes, her brow knitted in a frown. "They seem lonely folks," she
went on by-and-by, "without a friend in the place. Felicia—why couldn't
her mother have called her plain Mary, or Susan, or Jane, or some
sensible name?—was here to beg some boiling water just now, and she
looked fit to drop. I expect she'd been at the sewing machine all day."

"Poor child!" said Mr. M'Cosh; "such a bright-looking, pretty little
girl she is, too, to be kept shut up in that attic all day long! It's
very hard for her."

"I don't know why it should be harder for her because she's pretty!"

"I didn't mean that; but it always goes to my heart to hear of young
folks in trouble, and when I see the child of that poor widow upstairs,
I always think of our child—about the same age as this Felicia she
would have been if she had lived, wouldn't she?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded, her plain countenance softening, her shrewd grey
eyes growing dim. She had never had but one child—a baby girl who had
lived but a few months to gladden her parents' hearts.

"Now, I rather like the name Felicia myself," Mr. M'Cosh admitted;
"it's out of the common. What makes you object to it?"

"It's too fanciful, to my mind; it would do well enough for a lady,
but think of a girl who'll have to work for her living being called
Felicia! I should say her mother is a foolish, unpractical sort of
woman."

"Poor soul! It's easy to see she's come down in the world," commented
Mr. M'Cosh.

"Yes," agreed his wife; "she's a way of wearing her clothes so as to
make the best of them, and I must admit she and the child always look
tidy and clean. If she'd been able to scrub she'd be better off to-day;
blouse-making and that sort of employment is heartbreaking work, and
there's very little profit, I'm afraid, after paying for the hire of a
sewing machine. 'Tis 'sweating,' that's what it is, and it never ought
to be allowed."

"Has Mrs. Renford had a doctor?" inquired Mr. M'Cosh. Then, as his wife
shook her head, he added, decidedly: "Someone ought to see to her."

Mrs. M'Cosh made no rejoinder immediately. She rather prided herself
on having nothing to do with her neighbours and "keeping herself to
herself," as she expressed it. At length, however, she said—

"'Tis the duty of ministers and district visitors to find out those who
are sick and in want of assistance. You can't think it's my place to
interfere. Mrs. Renford has always rather kept me at a distance."

Mr. M'Cosh regarded his wife with a smile lurking it around the corners
of his mouth, and an expression of amusement in his mild blue eyes; and
when he spoke again, it was to change the conversation.

Supper finished, Mrs. M'Cosh washed and put away the supper things,
then sat down near the open window opposite to her husband. This was
the hour of the day she liked best, but to-night she failed to enjoy
it quite so much as usual by reason of her mind being so full of the
sick woman upstairs. She was obviously restless and ill at ease. At ten
o'clock, that being the time at which they generally began to think of
going to bed, she fetched her Bible and read a chapter aloud as she did
every night. On this occasion it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Saint
Matthew's Gospel which she read, and when she had finished it, she shut
the Bible, and looked exceedingly thoughtful.

"There's wonderful teaching in those last verses," observed Mr. M'Cosh
meditatively, with a sly glance at his better half. "'Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done
it unto Me,'" he quoted; "to think that the smallest act of kindness
one may do is doing it unto Him! 'Tis a solemn thought."

Mrs. M'Cosh had no answer ready, but the expression of her face was
gentler than usual, and a little regretful as she reflected that the
privilege of helping others for Christ's sake might have been oftener
hers if she had pleased.

She made no mention of Mrs. Renford to her husband on the following
morning. He was up and at work soon after daybreak, and came home to
breakfast at eight o'clock. When he had gone again, his wife left
her own domain, and for the first time during the many years she had
lived in the house, found her way upstairs. Flight after flight she
climbed until the top storey was reached and the attic where the sick
woman and her little daughter dwelt. The sound of a sewing machine
fell upon her ears as she knocked at the closed door. Immediately, the
"whirr-whirr-whirr" of the machine ceased, and Felicia answered her
summons.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, "I am sorry I have not returned your dish;
I was going to do so by-and-by. It was a most lovely supper—"

"I have not come about the dish," interposed Mrs. M'Cosh, panting, for
she was breathless after her climb, "but to inquire for your mother.
How is she this morning?"

"Please come in," said the invalid, recognising the visitor's voice.
Then, as Mrs. M'Cosh entered the room, she exclaimed with real pleasure
in her tone: "How good of you to come to inquire for me! I am so glad
to see you, for I want to thank you for your kindness to us last night."

"Don't mention it," replied Mrs. M'Cosh.

She took the chair Felicia placed for her by the bedside, and proceeded
to examine the sick woman's countenance critically.

"But I must mention it because I feel so very, very grateful," Mrs.
Renford said, smiling. "God bless you. You have proved yourself a
neighbour indeed."

Mrs. M'Cosh's colour deepened till it was the hue of a peony. Her eyes
wandered from the sick woman's face to the slender, white fingers which
played nervously with the coverlet, and with a gesture which was wholly
womanly and kind, she covered them with her large hand as she asked—

"What have you had for breakfast?"

"A cup of tea. I could eat nothing—I have no appetite. But I do not
think I am worse to-day, I feel in better spirits. Do you know, I think
your goodness has cheered me up? We are so alone—Felicia and I."

"Isn't there anyone you could send for?" Mrs. M'Cosh inquired. "Have
you no relations?"

"None of my own. I never knew either father or mother; I was brought
up in London by a French lady, a Miss de Musset—one of the best women
that ever lived! I was always very musical, and as I grew up it was
discovered that I had a beautiful voice which I was so fortunate as to
have well trained. I worked hard, and, in due course, I set up as a
music and singing mistress. I gave up my work when I married; but when
my husband died soon after Felicia was born, I took it up again and
earned a good living for myself and my child till a little over two
years ago. Then I had a most serious illness. I caught typhoid fever,
and lay for a long while at death's door; I lost my beautiful voice and
was partially paralysed for many months."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. M'Cosh commiseratingly; "that was the beginning
of your troubles, I suppose?"

"Yes. When I was well enough to work again, I realised that my career
as a music and singing mistress was at an end. I have never regained my
voice, but the paralysis left me after a while and I could use my hands
for sewing. By that time the little money I'd saved had all been spent;
and I didn't know what to do."

"What made you come to Bristol?"

"I knew the forewoman of a factory here, and she promised me work. She
kept her word, but the work was too trying for me. I could not do it,
and—it's so easy to go downhill—"

"There, there, don't tell me any more," broke in Mrs. M'Cosh, and there
was a note of sincere sympathy in her deep, gruff voice; "I can guess
how things went. What you've got to do now is to pick up your strength,
and you must try not to worry. Well, I suppose I must not stay longer,
for I'm interrupting Felicia in her work."

"Would you come and sit with me an hour this evening whilst Felicia
goes out to do some errands?" questioned the invalid eagerly.

"Certainly," was the prompt response.

"Oh, thank you! Felicia doesn't care to leave me alone. I shall be so
glad if you will come, for I want to have a talk with you."

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded and left the room, motioning to Felicia to follow
her. Outside the door she whispered to the little girl to run
downstairs presently and fetch a glass of egg and milk which she was
going to mix for her mother.

"What did she say, dear?" Mrs. Renford asked when Felicia returned, and
on being told, she murmured: "How very, very kind!" Later, she was able
to drink part of the egg and milk and declared she felt better, her
headache had gone, and she really thought to-morrow she would be able
to get up. Felicia was so cheered to hear her mother speaking hopefully
that her heart sang with joy as she worked. During the afternoon Mrs.
Renford sat up in bed and made the button-holes in the heap of blouses
which were waiting for her finishing touches. Long before her task was
at an end she grew very tired, but she succeeded in completing it;
then, too weary almost to speak, she lay back on her pillows to rest.

The hot summer sunshine shone through the open window, and the room
grew more and more airless, whilst Felicia laboured uncomplainingly,
seldom removing her eyes from her work. At length, however, she made
some remark, and receiving no answer turned to look at her mother. Mrs.
Renford was lying white and still, and Felicia ran to her side with a
cry of alarm to find she had fainted.



CHAPTER III

White Lilies

FRIGHTENED immeasurably at the discovery that her mother was quite
unconscious, Felicia summoned Mrs. M'Cosh, who bathed the invalid's
face and hands with cold water and soon succeeded in reviving her and
in reassuring the little girl who stood trembling by the bedside. One
point Mrs. M'Cosh now insisted upon, and that was that a doctor should
be called in. Accordingly, the parish doctor was sent for, and came
and examined the sick woman very carefully. He spoke of heart trouble
and general debility, but much to the relief of mother and daughter
he did not suggest the patient's removal to a hospital. He would tell
the district nurse to look in, he said, and he would also speak to the
relieving officer.

"Meanwhile, I will undertake to see that Mrs. Renford wants for
nothing," declared Mrs. M'Cosh; "I live in the house and understand
nursing."

The doctor nodded and took his departure, promising to call again on
the following day. Mrs. M'Cosh followed him downstairs and held a
brief conference with him ere he left the house. Ten minutes later she
reappeared in the attic, bearing a tray which held a teapot, three
cups, a cake, and a plate of daintily cut bread and butter.

"I thought it would be pleasant for us all to have tea together," she
remarked as she put her burden on the table. "Now, Felicia, try to make
a good meal, to please me, and do you try also, my dear," she added,
glancing at the invalid.

"I shall never be able to thank you for your kindness," Mrs. Renford
replied, with rather an uncertain smile. She was deeply touched by the
way in which Mrs. M'Cosh had called her "my dear."

"Please don't try," was the quick response; "I've a notion that if I
was ill you'd do as much for me. Yes, I know you would. Now, Felicia,
cut that cake whilst I pour out the tea."

The little girl obeyed. She was looking quite bright and smiling,
the truth being that she thought her mother could not be very ill,
as the doctor had not ordered her removal to the hospital; and she
was so relieved at his not having done so that she was feeling quite
light-hearted. Poor little girl, she did not dream of the trouble which
was coming upon her!

Mrs. M'Cosh watched her with an expression of mingled sympathy and
tenderness which was not lost upon the invalid, who, at the conclusion
of the meal, suggested that Felicia should go out and do the errands
she had mentioned earlier in the day. Accordingly, Felicia sallied
forth, carrying a great bundle of blouses and aprons to be delivered at
the shop for which her mother worked, satisfied with the knowledge that
Mrs. M'Cosh would remain in the attic till her return.

"Indeed, she is very, very kind," thought the little girl gratefully;
"and she seems to get on with mother better than she did at first."

She took the blouses and aprons to the shop, and received the payment
for the making of them—only a small sum, certainly, but sufficient to
buy a few groceries. How she longed to be able to purchase something
very nice for her mother! She lingered outside the provision shops
staring into the windows, halt no one took any notice of her. In
Bristol, that city of charities, as in most places, it is the deserving
poor who are generally overlooked.

"Oh, if I were only rich!" sighed Felicia, pausing by-and-by before a
florist's shop. "How I wish I had some of those flowers for mother! Oh,
those roses and lilies! How she would love a sight of them!"

A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of
the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia
drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested
upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of
mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young
lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile,
it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several
stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed
them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those
gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely
unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.

"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she
hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment!
Oh, how pleased mother will be!"

On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother
might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake
and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little
daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin
cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—

"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"

Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over
them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she
said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His
promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation
of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were
full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia
wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour
had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had
put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a
tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.

"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight
hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to
say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"

"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the
anxiety she felt.

"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very
bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put
my house in order, so to speak—"

"Mother!"

It was an exceedingly bitter cry, full of sorrow and fear, and bursting
into a passion of grief, Felicia sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Renford
watched her pitifully, murmuring, "Poor child! Poor child! My poor
little girl!"

At length it dawned upon Felicia that for her mother's sake she must
try to compose herself, and struggling to subdue her sobs, she wiped
the tears from her eyes, but they would flow again.

"Oh, mother, it cannot be that you are so ill as that!" she cried at
length.

"Yes, my dear, it is so. I do not mind except for you, and—and
even for you, Felicia, it may be for the best. Don't look at me so
reproachfully, dear, I know what I am saying. Listen to me, little
daughter, and don't make things harder for us both than you can help."

"Oh, mother, I will try not to! But, oh, what shall I do, what shall I
do when—when—"

"When I am gone? It is about that I want to speak to you. You
know, dear, you have relations in Somerset, your grandfather and
grandmother—your father's parents."

"I can't bear to think of them, mother. They were cruel to you."

"They were not kind," Mrs. Renford admitted, "but—but they did not
understand. They never forgave their son for marrying me, and when he
died they would have taken you from me, it is true; but—I want you not
to dwell on that. When I am gone, I believe they will give you a home.
I've been talking matters over with Mrs. M'Cosh, and she agrees with me
that you ought to go to them—but not whilst I live; I cannot part with
you yet, my dear, dear child."

Felicia flung her arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her with
passionate affection. Her tears had ceased to flow now, but her heart
was full of a dull sense of despair.

"My mind has been much troubled by doubts and fears to-day," Mrs.
Renford proceeded to admit, "but when you came in just now with those
lilies, they reminded me of Christ's promise to care for His own. Did
He not say, 'Fear not, little flock'? And you and I belong to His
flock, Felicia, and though we shall be parted before long by the valley
of the shadow of death, we shall meet again. Oh, my dear, that thought
must be our consolation now!"

Mrs. Renford sank back exhausted upon the pillow, but presently she
continued the conversation.

"I have made a great many mistakes in my life," she confessed sadly.
"I ought not to have married your father without his parents' consent,
but I was young and thoughtless, and I did not understand they would
so utterly disapprove of me as they did. I was not brought up as they
considered their son's wife should have been. Oh, Felicia, if better
days come to you, don't let them make you forget the past, and—and—if
anyone endeavours to teach you to be ashamed of your mother, remember
that, though she was a 'nobody' and not very wise, she loved you and
tried to teach you to be a good girl, and—she did the best she could.
God doesn't ask more than that, and you know His judgment is not the
world's, but infinitely loving and merciful."

"Oh, mother, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you?" Felicia
questioned in a heart-broken voice. "Oh, why do you talk to me like
this? Perhaps, after all, the doctor is mistaken, and you will recover."

"It may be so, of course; I have heard that doctors cannot always tell
how it will be when a patient is suffering from heart disease. But if
he is right, you will do as I wish, will you not?"

Felicia nodded silently, and her mother was satisfied.

"I have given Mrs. M'Cosh instructions how to act. I feel she is one
to be trusted, and she has proved herself kind and sympathetic—a
true friend in need." Mrs. Renford paused, and her eyes wandered to
the flowers on the table—the room was full of their fragrance. "How
beautiful those lilies are!" she exclaimed, with a ring of pleasure
in her frail voice; "God bless the young lady who gave them to you,
whoever she is. They have come like a message from God."

For several days the lilies bloomed in the pickle jar, whilst the sick
woman grew weaker hour by hour. Felicia was obliged to cease working,
for her mother could not endure the sound of the sewing machine;
and, instead, she spent her time ministering to the dear invalid who
followed her eve loving, wistful eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh came and went; the
doctor was very kind and attentive, and the district nurse called
to see what she could do; but Mrs. Renford was passing beyond human
assistance. One morning found her lying white and lifeless with a smile
of ineffable content upon her lips, and Mrs. M'Cosh—her plain face
swelled and purple with weeping—laid the pure, white lilies on her
breast, and then led Felicia—stunned with grief at the loss she had
sustained—unresistingly from the room.



CHAPTER IV

Desolation

"WHAT a deluge!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh, coming to the window where
Felicia stood gazing out into the street. She laid her large hand with
a kindly pressure on the little girl's shoulder as she spoke. "I'm
afraid master will get very wet coming home from work. One thing I'm
glad of, and that is, that it did not rain like this in the afternoon."

"Yes," assented Felicia, "I am glad it kept fine till—till all was
over."

That afternoon she and Mrs. M'Cosh had followed her mother to her last
earthly resting-place in the cemetery, and now she was experiencing
more keenly than ever that sense of desolation which had fallen
upon her when she had left the death-chamber three days previously.
The weather, which had been dry, though overclouded, throughout the
morning and afternoon, had now turned to rain, which was descending in
torrents, and running in streams down the gutters on either side of
the street. It was weather in keeping with her feelings, Felicia told
herself; she thought she would have felt her sorrow still more acutely
if the sun had shone that day.

The last week had passed like a dream to the little mourner. She was
truly grateful to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh, who had not only given her
the shelter of their own home, but had saved her mother from the
degradation of a pauper's funeral; and now she was thinking that she
could not remain with these kind friends much longer, she must keep her
promise to her mother, and go to her father's people.

"How I wish I could stay with you altogether," she whispered by-and-by,
her soft blue eyes shining through tears—"with you and dear Mr. M'Cosh!"

"Ah! I wish we could keep you, my dear, and so does master, I'm sure!"

"Supposing my grandfather and grandmother don't want me," suggested
Felicia, sighing, "what shall I do then?"

"Why, then, you can come back to us. Yes, I mean it. Master and I
talked the matter over last night, and he said I must impress upon you
that you'd never be without friends in the world whilst we're alive."

Felicia flung her arms impulsively around the good woman's neck, and
hugged and kissed her rapturously. How much rather would she face the
future with Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh than with strangers like her relations.
But there was her promise to her mother to be kept. Oh, she did hope
her grandparents would refuse her a home!

Later in the evening, after Mr. M'Cosh had returned from work, and had
had his supper, he and his wife fell to talking of Felicia's prospects
in life. It appeared he had been making inquiries about the little
girl's relatives, and had learnt that they lived in a house called
the Priory, on the outskirts of the village of N—, in Somersetshire.
Felicia had the address in a pocket-book of her mother's, which
contained several papers of importance, including her parents' marriage
certificate.

"The Priory is a fine place, I'm told," Mr. M'Cosh remarked; "my mate
worked there once when Mr. Renford was making some alterations in his
stables, but more than half of the house is shut up. Doesn't it seem
somehow wrong," he proceeded meditatively, "to think of Felicia and the
poor soul who's gone living upstairs in that attic, when there's so
many rooms wasting, so to speak, in that great house?"

"It seems most unjust!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh indignantly. "Mr. Renford
must be—" She paused abruptly, doubting whether it would be wisdom to
say what she thought of Felicia's grandfather.

"Did you, hear what my grandmother was like, Mr. M'Cosh?" inquired
Felicia anxiously.

"No, my dear, my mate never saw her, and he was told she seldom went
out, except for drives in fine weather. The Priory is a very old house,
beautifully situated in the midst of lovely scenery. Why, Felicia,
you'll hardly know yourself there!"

"Perhaps I shan't be wanted," said Felicia with a little choking sob.

But Mr. M'Cosh was of a different opinion, and said so. He thought
such a pretty little girl as Felicia would be very welcome in the big,
lonely house his friend had been at some pains to depict to him. It
seemed strange, after all he had heard, that Mr. Renford's grandchild
should be his guest, and he regarded her with a somewhat wistful
expression in his mild blue eyes, which Felicia noticed and wondered at.

"When do you think I ought to go to the Priory?" she asked in a tearful
voice.

"Well, let me see, it's Friday now," Mr. M'Cosh observed reflectively;
"we'd like to keep you till Monday, if you'll stay—eh, missus?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded silently.

"If I'll stay!" cried Felicia. "Oh, if I could always live with you,
how delighted I should be! But I promised mother to go to father's
relations, and, of course, I must go."

"They have the best right to you, my dear. Don't you think, though, you
ought to write and say you're coming?" And Mr. M'Cosh glanced dubiously
from the little girl to his wife.

"No," the latter answered, "her mother said particularly that she was
to go—that her grandparents might see her."

"But I have no money," Felicia said with a painful blush.

"Oh, we can manage that!" Mr. M'Cosh told her reassuringly. "Your
journey money will be very little. N— is only an hour's ride by train
from Bristol, it's on the main line."

"But—but you have spent so much money on me already," murmured the
little girl distressfully, "on me and—her! Oh, don't think I don't
realise all you've done for us! I know you've paid for the funeral, and
my new black frock and hat, and—and there's nothing I can do for you in
return! I owe you so much—so much!"

"Never mind that," said Mr. M'Cosh earnestly, "we've been glad to
help." He coughed as though there was something in his throat, then
continued: "The missus and I had a little girl ourselves once, my dear;
she didn't stay with us very long, and we thought it was cruelly hard
God should take her away. When we heard the earth fall on her little
coffin, we felt—well, much as you felt this afternoon, I expect—as
though our hearts would never cease aching, as though we could never
be happy again because of our loss; but as time went on, we were glad
to know our child was safe with God. If she had lived, she would have
been about your age, and that's made us take to you; isn't that so?" he
asked, turning to his wife, who nodded assent.

This was the first occasion on which Felicia had ever heard mention
made of the dead child, and she was very touched. Sore-hearted herself,
she could enter into the sorrow of these good people, and sympathise
with them. She had lost her mother; they had lost their child.

The next day she paid a farewell visit to the home which had been hers
and her mother's for the past two years. Already it had been re-let and
the new tenant was to come into residence that night. The attic was
scrupulously clean, for Mrs. M'Cosh had thoroughly scrubbed the floor
and rubbed the few pieces of furniture which belonged to the owner of
the house.

Poor Felicia flung herself down beside the empty bed and wept
heart-brokenly; then, exhausted by the violence of her grief, she crept
to the window and looked out on the familiar view. It almost seemed as
though she must hear her mother's voice addressing her presently. The
last week appeared so unreal—like a hideous dream, the final scene of
which had been enacted yesterday afternoon. Felicia had never attended
a funeral before her mother's, and now as she stood by the open window,
her aching eyes raised above the roofs and chimney tops to the wide
expanse of sky overhead, she recalled the opening words of the Service
of the previous day. And as she repeated them softly to herself they
fell like healing balm upon her heart—

"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and
believeth in Me shall never die.'"

Her mother had believed, of that she was certain, therefore she need
have no fears for her. And for herself—oh, she must not be a coward,
she must trust her future to God's hands! She looked around the little
attic, and wondered if she would ever see it again. She could picture
her mother seated at the round table working the sewing machine even
better than she could picture her on the bed in the corner. She was
glad of that, for she would far rather think of her well than ill. How
bright and cheerful she had been in her days of health, and how bravely
she had faced sickness and death. What was that verse she had repeated
to her one day when she, Felicia, had been inclined to grumble? Ah, she
remembered! And she hoped she might never forget.

  "God never would send you the darkness
     If He knew you could bear the light;
   But you would not cling to His guiding hand
     If the way were always bright;
   And you would not learn to walk by faith,
     Could you always walk by sight."

She would try to walk by faith, but she dreaded the thought of facing
those who had, as she knew, despised and disapproved of her mother; and
deep down in her heart was still the hope that her grandparents would
close their doors against her, in which case she would gladly return to
the friends God had raised up for her in her time of need. Mr. M'Cosh
was only a workingman, and his wife was only a working-woman, but there
was nothing "common" about them as Felicia understood the word, and she
was sure she would be quite content to live with them.

Suddenly Mrs. M'Cosh's rubicund countenance appeared round the door,
and her deep voice interrupted Felicia's reverie—

"You've been here long enough, child," she said, "better come
downstairs."

"I'm coming," Felicia answered readily, and though her face was swollen
and her eyes red with weeping, her tone was less listless than it had
been during the last few days.

"I came to look for you because I feared you were grieving," Mrs.
M'Cosh explained solicitously; "it's natural you should, but depend
upon it, you needn't grieve for her."

"No, it's for myself—that's selfish, I suppose. It seems to me I never
can be quite my old self again. Nothing is the same now she is gone."

"I think when one loses someone one cares for very much, one never can
be quite as one was before," Mrs. M'Cosh said musingly; "it gives one
a solemn kind of feeling to know there's someone who loves one dearly
waiting for one in Heaven, doesn't it?"

Felicia agreed; and after another lingering glance around the room, she
followed Mrs. M'Cosh downstairs. Thus she said good-bye, for ever, to
her attic home.



CHAPTER V

Lion's Find

MRS. M'COSH and Felicia stood on the down platform at Bristol railway
station, waiting for the arrival of the train by which the latter
was to travel to N—. A very pretty, interesting little girl Felicia
appeared in her neat black dress and hat, looking younger than her
twelve years by reason of her small, slight figure. She held her
companion's hand—encased in baggy cotton gloves—very tight, and gazed
up into her broad, red face with sorrowful, blue eyes, as the minutes
slipped all too quickly away, bringing the time at which the train was
due to arrive at Bristol very near now.

"You have the pocket-book safe?" said Mrs. M'Cosh interrogatively.

"Yes, here," Felicia answered, touching the bosom of her frock.

"That's right, my dear; all you have to do is to put it into your
grandfather's hands. Then if he says you 're to stay, you'll send me a
line and I'll forward your box at once."

"And if he says he won't have anything to do with me I shall come right
back again," declared Felicia; "Mr. M'Cosh has given me enough money to
buy my ticket home. Perhaps you'll see me again this evening."

She was trying to speak calmly; but her lips quivered and her eyes were
dim. Mrs. M'Cosh smiled at her encouragingly, and bade her keep a good
heart.

"Master suggested my taking you to the Priory myself, Felicia," she
said, "but I thought that wouldn't do. Your relations are gentlefolks,
you see, and they mightn't understand how I had come to be your friend."

"I shall tell them," Felicia interposed quickly, with a flash of her
blue eyes and a grateful pressure of her little fingers on the big hand
she clasped so affectionately; "I shall tell them that you and Mr.
M'Cosh are my best and dearest friends, and I shall explain all you
have done for mother and me. Oh, I wish you were coming too!"

Mrs. M'Cosh rather wished it herself. She was very anxious as well
as not a little curious to know the reception Felicia would get when
she presented herself at the Priory. At that moment, however, the
train arrived, and clasping the little girl in her arms she kissed her
tenderly.

"Good-bye, child, and God bless you," she said, her deep voice
unusually soft in tone. Then she added hurriedly: "Be a good girl, and
obey your grandparents if so be they decide to give you a home, and I
suppose they won't be able to refuse to provide for you, anyway. Master
and I would dearly like to adopt you, but your father was a gentleman,
it appears, and you belong to a different class of folks to what we do,
and so—and so—you understand it would never do."

They found a compartment with a corner seat empty, which Felicia took.
There was no opportunity for further conversation of a private nature;
and a few minutes later the train steamed out of the station. Felicia
put her head out of the window and tried to smile, but it was a very
sorry attempt, for she was deeply grieved at heart.

Mrs. M'Cosh stood on the platform waving her handkerchief till she
had watched the train out of sight, then she turned her footsteps
homewards, very low-spirited indeed. She much doubted if she would ever
see Felicia again.

"I wonder why God should have let us become attached to the child if He
meant to let her pass right out of our lives," she mused; "perhaps He
just wanted to make use of us for the time. Well, we won't grumble at
that, for maybe the little we've been able to do He'll count as done
unto Him. Poor little Felicia! I hope her grand relations will treat
her well and make her happy."

Meanwhile the train was carrying Felicia beyond the smoke and the grime
of the city into a purer, sweeter atmosphere, and soon it was rushing
between pleasant meadowlands, where haymaking was going on. Through the
open window of the carriage came delicious scents of flowers, and when
the train—a slow one—stopped at the small stations on the line, Felicia
was charmed by their well-kept gardens.

How beautiful everything was on that perfect summer day! The little
girl's spirits began to rise, and a thrill of happiness stole into her
heart, only to give place, a moment later, to a pang of sorrow at the
thought that there was no dear mother with her now to enjoy the beauty
on which she was feasting her eyes.

"But if it is so lovely here, how much lovelier must it be in Heaven,"
reflected Felicia, and the thought brought comfort with it.

At last the train slowed into the station at N—, and Felicia alighted
on to the platform. She found she was the only passenger who left the
train, which waited but a couple of minutes.

"Any luggage?" questioned the porter in the doorway, to whom Felicia
tendered her ticket.

"No," she replied, colouring, as she noticed the curiosity of his
glance. "Can you tell me the way to the Priory?" she inquired.

[Illustration: "FELICIA PUT HER HEAD OUT OF THE WINDOW, AND TRIED TO
SMILE."]

"To the Priory?" His eyes travelled over her black dress, then rested
on her face again. "Yes, certainly. Keep to your right through the
village, go past the church and the Vicarage, and in about five
minutes' walk from there you'll come to the Priory gate."

"Thank you," she responded politely.

"A friend of one of the servants, are you?" he asked, following her out
of the station.

"No—oh no!"

"Not a friend of the family?" he questioned dubiously.

"Not a friend—exactly," she answered. He was very inquisitive, she
thought, but she could see he did not intend to be rude. "Keep to the
right, you said? Good morning—and thank you."

Felicia started towards the village at a quick rate, but she slackened
her footsteps and looked around her attentively when she reached
the first cottages. The village street was long and straggling, and
almost deserted on this hot, summer afternoon, for most of the adult
inhabitants were haymaking and the children were at school. Felicia
passed the schoolhouse by-and-by—it stood on the opposite side of the
road to the church—from whence came the monotonous singsong noise of
some fifty young voices repeating a lesson. Close to the church, which
was a picturesque old edifice, was the Vicarage—a modern red-brick
house, with bow windows. The Vicarage garden joined the churchyard
wall, in which there was a door of communication. Felicia was naturally
an observant child, and little escaped the notice of her sharp eyes as
she followed the porter's directions and kept straight on. Her heart
began to palpitate unevenly when she, at length, reached the big iron
gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, and as she passed up the
wide carriage drive leading to the house she began to tremble with
nervousness, and when she stood before the front door, it was several
minutes before she could pluck up sufficient courage to ring the bell;
and the instant she did nerve herself to do so, she felt inclined to
take to her heels and run away.

In answer to her ring, the door was opened by a tall, old man, with
snowy hair and a pair of bright, brown eyes. He spoke to Felicia in a
tone of indulgent surprise.

"Well, little maiden, what brings you here ringing at the front
door—eh?"

Felicia regarded him timidly. Her limbs were trembling, and she
was very flustered, for she had jumped to the conclusion that this
benevolent-looking old man must be her grandfather.

"Oh, please," she gasped, "are you—are you Mr. Renford?"

"No, my dear," he replied with a chuckle of amusement. "But who, pray,
are you? I don't seem to know your face—you're not one of the village
children?"

"No. I—I've come from Bristol. I—I particularly want to see Mr.
Renford."

"He's not in; he's out with the haymakers. Better tell me your
business."

"No, thank you," Felicia responded; "I will call again. Will Mr.
Renford be at home soon?"

"He'll be home in good time for dinner."

"In good time for dinner? Why, it must be nearly four o'clock!" cried
Felicia, whose acquaintances had always dined in the middle of the day.

"It's past four," said the old man, smiling. "Seven's the dinner hour
at the Priory. Now, come, my dear, what do you want of the master?
Can't I do as well? What's your name—eh?"

But Felicia merely shook her head; and repeating that she would call
again, she turned hastily away, and retraced her footsteps down the
carriage drive into the high road.

By that time she was hot and panting, and sought about for some
sheltered spot where she could sit down and rest. There was no shade in
the high road, so she climbed a five-barred gate into a meadow, where
the grass, which was starred with moon daisies, was not laid up for
mowing. The meadow sloped towards a deep ditch, overgrown with hazel
bushes, and into this ditch Felicia crept amongst the tall meadow-sweet
and yellow irises. It was cool and shady there, a damp place in the
winter, no doubt, but the drought of the last few weeks had dried it
up, and the little girl sat down to rest, thinking what a charming
spot she had discovered. She was very tired, worn out by excitement,
in fact, and it was very comfortable in the ditch. The air was full of
the pungent scent of meadow-sweet, and the drowsy hum of insects fell
soothingly upon her ears. Her eyelids were heavy, so she closed them,
and laid her head back upon the cool, green grass, and thus fell into a
little doze from which she passed into a deep, firm sleep.

An hour went by—two hours—and still the child slept undisturbed; but
at length a huge dog—a mastiff—leaped the gate from the road into the
meadow, and, nose to the ground, made straight for the ditch. The next
minute Felicia was awakened by a movement at her side, and opening
her eyes, she was terribly shocked to see an enormous, yellowish-drab
animal, with cruel-looking open jaws, from which lolled a great red
tongue, standing over her. She dared not speak or move, fearing the
creature would pounce upon her, for he looked so fierce, and the gaze
of his light brown eyes was so appalling.

Thus the child and the dog regarded each other silently, immovably, for
some minutes; then the latter began to slowly wag his tail, and bending
his head he gently licked first the little girl's hands, next her
cheek. Relieved to find him inclined to be friendly, she ventured to
stroke his neck; whereupon he exhibited great delight, and lifting up
his head, gave utterance to a deep bark. A moment later a man's voice
responded, shouting: "Lion! Lion! where are you, old boy?"

Lion wagged his tail, looked expectant, and barked again.

"What have you found? Nothing of importance, I expect, but I suppose
I must come and see," grumbled the voice. "Where are you? Oh, there
in the ditch, hidden by the meadow-sweet and the rest of the ditch
flowers. Why—well, I never!" The speaker paused in astonishment. He
had reached the spot where Felicia lay, and clutching the dog by the
collar, he pulled him sharply back as he bent his gaze on the little
girl, a humorous smile curving his lips. "This is a rare sort of ditch
flower," he remarked, "as evidently Lion thought when he found you. My
child, why are you hiding there?"



CHAPTER VI

Felicia and Her Grandfather

FELICIA was still trembling, though she no longer experienced any fears
of the big dog, and her eyes looked startled as she raised them to
meet the gaze of a pair as clear and blue as her own. Lion's master
was a gentleman past middle age, but his tall figure, clad in a tweed
knickerbocker suit, was erect and vigorous, and his brown hair was but
sparsely sprinkled with gray. His face, the features of which were
decidedly handsome, was clean-shaven; and child though she was, Felicia
noticed that it was rather a hard face, though at present it was
softened by a smile.

"I came here to rest," she explained as she scrambled out of the ditch;
"I was asleep when your dog found me."

"I hope he did not frighten you?"

"He did, a little, at first; but then he licked my hands and face, and
I knew he would not do that if he meant to hurt me."

"No, indeed! Lion must have taken a fancy to you; he does not, as a
rule, make friends quickly." The gentleman looked at her attentively.
"Do you live in the village?" he inquired.

"Oh no!" she replied.

"Ah, I thought not! The village children grow roses on their cheeks,
and you have none. It takes sunshine and fresh air to grow roses." He
released his hold of Lion's collar and smiled as the dog immediately
went to the little girl to be noticed.

She patted his great head, not in the least afraid of him now, whilst
he submitted to be made much of with great contentment.

"What a nice dog he is!" she exclaimed.

"You are accustomed to animals?"

"No, but I love them. We—mother and I—always lived in lodgings, and so,
of course, I could not keep pets, and the last two years whilst we have
been in Bristol—" She broke off and grew red, for she had been about to
explain that they had had enough to do to feed themselves, but suddenly
remembered there was no necessity to tell that to a stranger.

"And are you and your mother living in Bristol now?" he inquired after
a brief pause.

"My mother died a week ago," Felicia responded in a low tone; "oh, it
seems a great deal longer than that! And now—and now I have no home."

"No home? But you have friends?"

"Oh, yes!" she cried, her face brightening, "the best in the world!"

"Where are they? What are you doing at N—?"

Felicia hesitated and regarded him dubiously. He had a masterful way of
asking questions as though he had a right to put them.

"My friends live at Bristol," she answered with a touch of reserve in
her tone; "and I have come to N— on business about—about myself."

"On business about yourself!" he exclaimed, laughing, evidently amused
at her reply; "and you mean to keep it to yourself, I perceive. Well,
you're quite right. Come, Lion, we must be moving on, old boy."

"Oh, please, will you tell me the time?" demanded Felicia eagerly. "Is
it seven o'clock yet?"

"Not quite, It is—let me see—" he looked at his watch—"it is half-past
six exactly."

"Thank you. How long I must have slept! Two hours at least. Good
evening!" and she hurried across the meadow in the direction of the
gate.

The gentleman followed the small, black-gowned figure, wondering who
the child could be, whilst, much to his surprise, he observed that the
dog kept close to her side, though he glanced back at his master now
and then to see if he was following.

Felicia climbed over the gate, the dog leaping it after her; then she
walked at a more sedate pace, for she did not wish to arrive at the
Priory in a breathless condition. At the entrance to the Priory grounds
she glanced back and saw the gentleman not far behind, and before she
had gone half the distance of the carriage drive he had overtaken her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded in a peremptory tone. "Do you know
where this leads?"

"Yes, to the Priory," she responded. "I am going to see Mr. Renford. I
called more than two hours ago, but he was not in then, so I'm going to
find out if he's come home. Oh, I do hope he has!"

"What is your business with him?" he inquired, laying a detaining hand
on her shoulder; "come, child, speak out and tell me."

"I cannot," replied Felicia, almost in tears, for she was alarmed to
see the lines around his mouth had hardened, and the expression of his
face had become stern; "I cannot tell my business to any one but Mr.
Renford," she declared firmly.

"Well, here he is. I am he—Julius Renford, the master of the Priory.
Why, what's the matter with you? You're shaking like an aspen leaf."

Felicia did not answer. A look of utter amazement had crept over her
countenance, for her grandfather was so different from the mental
picture she had formed of him. She had fancied he would be older—as old
as the white-haired man with the bright, brown eyes who had interviewed
her at the Priory—and this alert, vigorous gentleman upset all her
preconceived ideas. She did not for a moment doubt he spoke the truth,
however, for his countenance was honest and open as the day.

"Come, come," he said impatiently, "what do you want of me? First of
all, tell me your name."

"It is Felicia—Felicia Renford," she informed him in faltering accents.

"What!" His clasp on her shoulder tightened, and his fine colour paled
slightly, whilst he subjected her face to a keen scrutiny which Felicia
bore with what fortitude she could muster for the occasion. "Do you
mean to say you are the daughter of my son John?"

"Yes," she replied chokingly.

"And your mother is dead, I think you told me?" Again she assented.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and Felicia's sensitive ears heard the ejaculation
was one of relief. "Where are your proofs?" he asked, "and who sent you
here?"

"My mother. She—"

"You said she was dead!" he interposed sternly.

"Yes. But before she died—"

"Come to the house," he interrupted again, "I cannot talk to you here."

He retained his hold of her—almost as though he was afraid she might
run away—until they reached the front door, which was opened by the old
man Felicia had seen before. Mr. Renford addressed a few words to him.

"Order the dinner to be kept back for half-an-hour, Price," he
commanded "and see I'm not interrupted. Follow me," he added to Felicia.

She did so, her mind in a whirl of bewilderment. Evidently the old
man whom she had thought might be her grandfather was a servant, she
reflected.

Mr. Renford led the way into a room on the right of the large entrance
hall. It was a pleasant room facing the west, the windows of which
opened upon a well-kept flower-garden, and it was comfortably furnished
the little girl saw at a glance. A Turkey carpet covered the floor, and
the dark walls, panelled in oak, made a suitable background for the
heavy gilt frames of the pictures of dogs and horses which ornamented
them. Over the high mantel-shelf hung several guns; and altogether it
was plain to see that it was the room of a sportsman and not a student,
though it was always called the "study."

Mr. Renford placed Felicia in a chair near the open window, and he was
about to seat himself opposite to her, when there came an imperative
scrape at the door. With an impatient exclamation he crossed the room
and admitted Lion, who stalked up to the little girl and laid his
great head in her lap. Mr. Renford closed the door; then he turned
towards the child and the dog. By that time Felicia had produced
the pocket-book which held all the papers her mother had treasured
carefully, and she now handed it to him. He took it without a word,
and seating himself at his writing-table, with his back towards her,
examined its contents.

Though very excited, Felicia waited quietly. There was a tall,
old-fashioned clock in the room, and she fastened her eyes on its brass
face and watched the minute hand go round. More than fifteen minutes
elapsed before Mr. Renford directed his attention to her again.

"So you are my son John's daughter," he said slowly, "and you are now
an orphan, it appears. In spite of all your mother's fine boasts of
what she could do for you, and her talk of independence, it seems she
has not done much—except bring you to want."

"She did the best she could," Felicia answered in a low tone; but there
was a glitter in her blue eyes as she spoke which her grandfather did
not fail to note; "it was not her fault she had that dreadful illness."

"Illness? What illness was that? Tell me about it."

She did so, explaining how it had been the cause of their great
poverty. She spoke of their attic home in Bristol, and the struggling
existence of the last two years which had ended with her mother's
death. If she had seen the faintest expression of sympathy for her
mother in his face, she would have wept aloud, but she saw none, and
that helped her to keep her composure.

"And now I suppose you expect to live at the Priory?" he asked when she
had finished her tale.

"Mother thought you would want me to live here," she frankly admitted,
"but I hope you won't—I have friends who will give me a home. I didn't
want to come to the Priory at all, but I had promised mother, and of
course I could not break my word. Oh, do please say I may go back to
Bristol to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh!"

"Who are they? Not the people you have been staying with—that mason
and his wife? Yes. So you would rather live with them—eh? Well, I may
as well tell you at once that will not be permitted. I shall go to
Bristol to-morrow and prove all your statements—not that I doubt them,
I believe you have spoken the truth—and I shall pay a visit to this Mr.
and Mrs. M'Cosh and settle matters with them; they must not be losers
on account of anything they have done—but of course they must have
known they would be repaid. Meanwhile, I will lock these papers away in
my safe; and, for the present, you will remain at the Priory. Obey me,
and you will have nothing to fear; disobey me, and—"

He paused expressively. She had listened with attention and a sinking
heart, her arms clasped round the dog's neck. Suddenly, with a little,
choking sob she turned away her face from his gaze.

"You are tired and hungry, no doubt," he proceeded hastily, "you must
have some refreshment at once."

He rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it to send Mrs.
Price to him. Three minutes later, a stout, elderly woman, wearing a
black gown and a white cap, entered the room. Mr. Renford smiled as he
noticed the curious, expectant glance she cast at Felicia.

"Look at them," he said pointing at the child and the dog. "Lion found
her asleep in the ditch at the bottom of Greenside meadow, and they are
friends already. I augur well from that, for dogs seldom make mistakes.
Observe her features, Mrs. Price, and tell me if you ever knew anyone
like her."

The little girl lifted her eyes wistfully to the woman's face and saw a
gleam of surprise and eagerness flit across it.

"I am not sure," Mrs. Price faltered, "but I think so, sir. She is very
like poor Master John."

"She is his daughter; I see the likeness myself. Take her away, Mrs.
Price; I entrust her to your care for the present. Consider her your
guest until—until I give you further instructions."

"No, no, let me go!" Felicia implored. "Oh, let me return to Bristol
to those who care for me! You do not, and I don't think you ever will.
You were nicer before you knew I was your grandchild. You don't want
me, and Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh do. They love me, and they were kind to my
dear, dear mother. Oh, mother, mother!" And she broke into a fit of
bitter weeping.

"Come away," whispered Mrs. Price, pitying the forlorn child, and
taking her gently by the hand she led her from the room, followed
closely by the dog. "Don't cry, my dear, you'll find someone to love
you at N—, never fear! You may take my word for that," she added as
soon as she had shut the study door.

"Do you mean my grandmother?" asked Felicia, hope springing anew in her
heart.

"Your grandmother? Why, my dear, she died more than three years ago. To
think now that you didn't know that!"



CHAPTER VII

The Family at the Vicarage

"DORIS! Such news! You'll never guess what it is!" And the speaker,
Molly Pring, caught her sister by the two shoulders and, in her
excitement, treated her to a hearty shake, which caused her to drop
the book she was reading and look at the disturber of her peace with
reproachful eyes.

"I declare, Molly, you're too bad! What do you want? I'm reading such
an exciting story—"

"It can't be half so exciting as the story I have to tell," interrupted
Molly, "for mine is true, and quite as interesting as a made-up one."

"Well, let me hear it," said Doris with an air of resignation as she
picked up the fallen book and carefully examined it to make certain it
was uninjured.

Doris and Molly Pring were the children of the Reverend Nathaniel
Pring, the Vicar of N—, and their mother was the only daughter of Mr.
Renford, the master of the Priory. Doris, who was nearly fifteen, was
a quiet, reserved sort of girl, wrapped up in herself, and not a very
congenial companion for her sister, who was two years her junior, and,
truth to tell, a great tomboy. They were both nice-looking children,
though neither could be termed pretty, and they were endowed with
perfect health, a fact to which their clear complexions and rosy cheeks
bore witness; but Molly was the more popular of the two, being cheerful
and light-hearted, and always ready to do anyone a good turn. It came
natural to Molly Pring to speak pleasantly, for she was a kind-hearted
little soul, and her words but echoed the sentiments of one of the
truest hearts that ever beat. There was not a man, woman, or child in
the parish who did not love Miss Molly, and even old Harry Budd, who
had been sentenced to several terms of imprisonment for poaching, had
his word of praise for the Vicar's younger daughter, and declared she
knew nearly as much about the habits of animals and birds as he did
himself.

It was nearly nine o'clock, on the evening of the day that Felicia had
arrived at N—, and the sisters were together in the schoolroom at the
Vicarage. Doris had been reading by the light of the lamp which she had
lit and placed on the table which occupied the middle of the room, and
Molly had just come upstairs after having been present at an interview
between her grandfather and her parents.

"Well, tell me your news," Doris said a trifle impatiently, as her
sister, having whetted her curiosity, appeared in no hurry to satisfy
it; "I hope something really exciting has happened, for I am sure
our lives are dull enough, as a rule. Is it anything to do with Miss
Barton?"

Miss Barton was their governess, who had gone to her home in Bristol
a fortnight previously, on account of the illness of her mother. The
invalid was now reported much better, and the governess was expected to
return to her pupils soon.

"No," Molly replied; "nothing whatever. Grandfather has been here—and,
oh, Doris, who do you think is at the Priory? You'll never guess if I
give you a dozen chances, so I may as well tell you. Our cousin!"

"Our cousin!" echoed Doris wonderingly. "What cousin?"

"Why, we have but one. Have you forgotten? Surely not. Don't you
remember mother told us that when her brother John died, he left a wife
and a child—a little baby girl? And it's that little girl who's at the
Priory. Fancy! she came from Bristol by herself, and she is only twelve
years old. Mother would not allow you or I to travel alone, although we
are older, but her mother is dead—she only died about a week ago. Oh,
isn't that sad? And her name is Felicia. Did you ever know a prettier
name? Father says it means 'happiness.'"

"What made her come to the Priory?" asked Doris, now thoroughly
interested.

"I suppose there was nowhere else for her to go, her mother being dead.
Grandfather said she told him such a miserable tale about herself and
her mother, that they had been terribly poor and had been obliged to
support themselves by doing needlework; and to-morrow he's going to
Bristol to find out if it's true; he thinks it is. Oh, Doris, doesn't
it seem dreadful that our own cousin should have been in want when we
have always had such a good home and plenty of everything? Grandfather
said she has the appearance of having been half-starved, and he looked
so red and queer when he said it, and mother cried, and father—oh,
there was such a grave, sad expression on his face!"

"I remember mother told me grandfather wanted to have Uncle John's
little girl to live at the Priory years ago," Doris remarked
reflectively.

"Yes, but her mother wouldn't give her up—of course she wouldn't. Do
you think our mother could bear to part with one of us?"

"No. But Uncle John's wife was quite a common person, I've heard, so
that's different."

"How?" asked Molly, opening her grey eyes wide with astonishment. "If
she wasn't a lady, I expect she loved her little girl quite as much as
though she was. Father wouldn't like to hear you speak like that; you
know he doesn't like to hear anyone called 'common.' Oh, I'm longing
to meet Felicia, to see what she's like. But grandfather said he would
rather we did not come to the Priory till he sends for us—not even
mother. He wishes to make certain Felicia has told him the exact truth
before he introduces her to us."

"Does he mean her to live at the Priory?" Doris inquired.

"I think he does. He did not say so, but he spoke as though she was to
remain there. Oh, by the way, Lion found her asleep in the deep ditch
at the bottom of Greenside meadow, and he's taken such a fancy to her.
Grandfather seemed pleased at that."

"What was she doing in the ditch?"

"Simply resting in the shade under the hazel bushes. She had been to
the Priory and had not found grandfather at home and had crept into
the ditch, because it was cool and quiet there. Grandfather said she
was lying amongst the meadow-sweet and irises; he called her 'a pale,
little ditch flower, unaccustomed to sunshine.'"

"Then I don't suppose she's very pretty," observed Doris meditatively.
"Well, I don't envy her if she is going to live at the Priory, for I
expect grandfather will be very strict with her, and then—there's Uncle
Guy! I wonder how he will like having her there?"

"Grandfather said he had not told Uncle Guy about her yet, but he will,
to-morrow, before he goes to Bristol. Uncle Guy has been in one of his
worst moods to-day, and has not left his own rooms."

At that moment the schoolroom door opened, and the children's mother
came in. She was a tall, fair, handsome woman, and the expression of
her face was frank and attractive.

"Supper is ready, my dears," she remarked, "and your father is waiting."

"Has grandfather gone?" Molly inquired.

"Yes. I wanted him to stay, but he would not. He said he had just dined
but I doubt if he had eaten much. I could see he was very excited."

The little girls followed their mother downstairs into the dining-room,
where their father was standing by the open window looking out into
the moonlit garden. He immediately joined his wife and children at the
supper table; and as soon as the parlour-maid had left the room, the
conversation naturally turned to the newcomer at the Priory.

"I thought father was not unfavourably impressed with her," said Mrs.
Pring, glancing anxiously at her husband.

"I thought the same," he agreed. "It is a pity he never had an
interview with the child's mother," he proceeded, "things might have
been so different if they had met face to face. I could never blame her
for keeping her baby girl."

"Nor I. In fact, I always had a better opinion of her on that account,"
admitted Mrs. Pring. "I could not think father right in wanting her to
give up the child; but, of course, his idea was that little Felicia
would be better away from her mother's influence. I believe he meant
to do right though he appeared harsh, he never dreamt the mother would
prove so stubborn."

"He had probably formed a totally erroneous estimation of her
character," remarked Mr. Pring.

"It was a terrible blow to him when John married her," said his wife,
sighing; "indeed, it was a trouble to us all. I hope Felicia will be a
nice little girl, but brought up as I fear she must have been—"

"My dear, we don't know how she has been brought up," Mr. Pring broke
in, a slight tone of reproof in his tone.

"But, father," said Doris gravely, "she can't have been brought up very
well, can she? I heard Uncle Guy say once that Uncle John had picked
his wife out of the gutter."

"Your Uncle Guy never saw his brother's wife, Doris," her father
reminded her; "and—poor fellow!—he seldom reflects before he speaks, or
he would not have uttered such a speech as that."

"Then isn't it true, father?"

"It is true that your Uncle John's wife was a foundling, he told me
so himself. She was the adopted daughter of the landlady of the house
where he lodged when he was a law student in London."

"And Uncle John's wife was a music teacher, wasn't she?" questioned
Molly eagerly.

"She was. Your grandfather was prejudiced against her because nothing
was ever known of her parentage, and the person who brought her up was
only a lodging-house keeper. You see, my dears, he has lived at N— most
of his life; if he had rubbed against people like those I used to meet
daily when I was a curate in the East End of London, he would know that
there are good, noble women whose self-sacrificing lives shine all
the brighter in contrast to their uncongenial surroundings. There are
saints of the gutter, Doris, living in slums amidst poverty and sin;
I have known many such amongst the women-workers who have crossed my
path, many of whom have failed of worldly success but who are certainly
not failures in the sight of their Father in Heaven. Remember it is not
always the purest atmosphere and the brightest sunshine which rears
the fairest flowers. The finest forget-me-nots in N— grow on the bank
of that dirty, stagnant pool outside the village, and I noticed as I
passed yesterday that the water-lilies there are far more beautiful
than those in the lake in the Priory grounds; they have blossomed in
mud and slime, and God has made them spotless and perfect. And so it
is with some souls, reared in dark surroundings of poverty and maybe
sin, they grow in grace and beauty, and we, in our ignorance, wonder
how that can be. 'It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our
eyes.'"

"Oh, father, I do like your little sermons!" Molly exclaimed with a
smile. "I wish grandfather could have heard this one."

"He has heard it before, I expect," Mrs. Pring said sighing. Then
her face brightened, and the glance she gave her husband was full of
understanding and affection. He was more than ten years her senior,
but they were a very united pair. "We are not to go to the Priory
to-morrow," she proceeded after a brief pause, "for father does not
wish us to make Felicia's acquaintance till he returns from Bristol.
He evidently means the child to live with him; I do not know how that
will answer, I am sure. As I said before, I hope she is a nice little
girl; if so, you two will like her for a friend," and she regarded her
daughters with a slightly wistful look.

"Oh, yes!" they both agreed, and Molly added: "We must be as kind to
her as ever we can be, because she must be very sad and lonely now her
mother is dead."

"That's right, Molly," her father said heartily; "and you must make
allowances for her if her ways are not quite your ways. Remember her
path in life has not been so smooth as yours. My little girls have been
reared in the sunshine, and hitherto this little maiden has walked in
the shade."



CHAPTER VIII

Uncle Guy

FELICIA never forgot the first night she spent at the Priory. After
supper, which had been served to her in the housekeeper's room, Mrs.
Price escorted her upstairs to a large bedroom, in the centre of which
stood a big four-post bed with heavy hangings. To the little girl's
excited imagination this bed looked like a hearse, and when she had
undressed and climbed into it—it was very high—and Mrs. Price had taken
her departure, she lay awake for hours, a prey to nervous terrors such
as had never troubled her before, so that it was nearly daybreak and
the birds were beginning to twitter before she, at last, fell into a
deep, dreamless sleep. It was late in the morning when she awoke to
find a bright-faced maid standing by her side, breakfast-tray in hand.

"Oh, have I overslept myself?" asked Felicia, springing up in bed and
gazing round the big, strange room with a startled look.

"It's past eleven o'clock, miss, but Mrs. Price would not have you
disturbed," responded the girl with a smile; "she said you were very
tired last night, and a long sleep would do you a lot of good. See,
here is your breakfast. Do you like coffee? Yes. That's right. And
here's some delicious bacon, and buttered toast. Now, do try to eat all
you can."

Felicia did try, and made an excellent breakfast, whilst the servant
talked to her.

"I'm Ann White," the girl explained, "and I've been under housemaid at
the Priory for more than a year. This is my first place, and I hope to
remain here. Mrs. Price—she's the housekeeper, you know—is my aunt, and
she's mistress here, now Mrs. Renford is gone. Why, she and her husband
have served in the Renford family for more than forty years."

"Is her husband the old man I saw at the door?" Felicia inquired.

"Yes, he's the butler, and it isn't his place to open the door—one of
us maids is supposed to do that—but he often does. He's a very kind old
man."

"I thought he looked kind."

"He looks just what he is. The master thinks very highly of him, and so
does Mr. Guy."

"Who is Mr. Guy?" asked Felicia.

"Dear me," cried Ann, "to think you don't know! Why, he's your uncle,
to be sure."

"I did not know I had an uncle," Felicia confessed with some
embarrassment; "does he live here?"

"Oh, yes! But often he keeps to his own rooms, for he's a great
invalid. Poor Mr. Guy! He's not much over thirty, and I suppose he
never knows what it is to feel really well. He's clever, they say, but
he's very peculiar—very; it's his temper makes him so, I suppose, and
he's terribly afflicted, so there's some excuse for him. I think I'd
better tell you, miss, that he's a hunchback."

"A hunchback!" Felicia echoed in accents of deepest pity. "Oh, how
very, very sad!"

"Isn't it? He was his mother's favourite child, they say; she was
devoted to him, and since her death he has grown more and more morose
and ill-tempered. Your grandmother was a very sweet lady, miss."

"I wish she was living now," sighed Felicia.

"Ah, yes! Everyone misses her, and Mr. Guy most of all, I expect. You
see, Mrs. Pring has her husband and children and all the parish to look
after, so to speak, and master has interests out-of-doors, but it's
different with Mr. Guy."

"Who is Mrs. Pring?" asked Felicia.

"Your aunt who married the Vicar," Ann replied, looking more and more
surprised as she discovered the extent of the little girl's ignorance
about her relations; "she has two daughters not much older than
yourself. Why, you're richer in relations than you thought."

"I am, indeed. Do tell me more about them."

Ann good-naturedly complied, and Felicia listened to all she had to
say, which was in praise of the family at the Vicarage, with great
attention. How she hoped she would be friends with her cousins!

When she had finished her breakfast and Ann had taken away the tray,
she arose and dressed. The housemaid had informed her that the master
of the house had gone to Bristol and would not be at home till the
evening. She wondered how she would be expected to pass the day. After
having said her prayers she sat down and read a chapter from the Bible
which she found on a table by the bedside, and then stood looking
dreamily out of the window, from which, beyond the flower-garden
stretching before the house, she caught the glimmer of water between
a group of trees, and was immediately reminded of that glimpse of
the river from the window of the attic she still thought of as home.
What wonder that the tears overflowed and streamed down her thin,
pale cheeks, and that her breast heaved with sobs. She had only to
shut her eyes and she could picture her mother's dark head bent over
the sewing machine; and in imagination she could still hear the
"whirr-whirr-whirr" which had so terribly tried her mother's nerves.
But a touch on her arm interrupted her reverie, and she looked up with
a start into the face of Mrs. Price.

"How do you feel this morning?" asked Mrs. Price kindly, observing the
little girl's sorrowful countenance with much concern.

"I am very well, thank you," Felicia responded hastily. "I—I have been
thinking of my mother, that is why I have been crying. I—I miss her so."

"Naturally, my dear. But, come, dry your eyes, for your Uncle Guy
wants to see you. He is a sad invalid, and we always try to humour his
wishes. You know he is—deformed."

"Yes; Ann told me."

"His nurse let him fall when he was an infant, and the result is that
he is a hunchback. He is greatly to be pitied. Will you come now?"

Felicia assented, and followed Mrs. Price out of the room and down a
long corridor, at the end of which hung a heavy crimson cloth curtain
before a closed door. As the two approached the door, it opened, and
Price came out, pushing aside the curtain which he held back to allow
Felicia to pass.

"Good morning, miss," said the old man with his kindly smile.

"Good morning," Felicia responded.

"Mr. Guy is ready to see you," he proceeded, and he forthwith ushered
her into the room, announcing, "Miss Felicia, if you please, Mr. Guy."

For a minute Felicia was too nervous and confused to go forward. She
stood just within the threshold of the room, her eyes fixed on the
thick velvet pile carpet beneath her feet; then she glanced up quickly,
and met the intent gaze of her uncle. He lay on a sofa close to the
open window, and the sunshine fell fully upon his face—a very handsome
face it was, with dark grey eyes and regular features, but it wore the
most unhappy and discontented expression possible.

"Come here," he said imperatively.

She obeyed, embarrassed by the keen scrutiny he was subjecting her to.
He took her hand in his, and for a few minutes uncle and niece regarded
each other in dead silence.

"My father gave me a faithful description of you," he remarked at
length; "you are a pale little blossom—an airy, fairy thing. Do you
know that I am your uncle? Yes. You are to call me 'Uncle Guy,' you
understand. I have two other nieces—Doris and Molly Pring—whose
acquaintance you will make by-and-by. But, now, tell me about yourself."

"About myself?" she said questioningly, surprised at this demand.

"Yes. Tell me all you told my father last night. I want to hear the
story from your lips—the story of your life. Sit down."

She took a chair by his side, and complied with his request, whilst
he turned his eyes away from her face and listened. She lingered over
her account of those better days when her mother had earned sufficient
money to supply their wants, and touched as lightly as possible on the
time subsequent to her attack of typhoid fever; and, as she talked,
she observed him closely, and noticed that his face bore traces of
suffering, and that there were dark rims beneath his eyes.

"And your friends—this Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh—paid for your mother's
funeral," he said when she had concluded her tale, "and those are the
people who would like to adopt you?"

She assented.

He laughed; something in the idea seemed to amuse him. Then he grew
suddenly serious, and looked at her with grave attention as he observed
slowly—

"You have seen a great deal of the seamy side of life, but there are
easier times in store for you, I've little doubt. You'll have to forget
the past now."

"I don't want to forget it, I hope I never shall," Felicia responded
with a touch of indignation in her tone. "I want to remember it
always—always. We were not unhappy, mother and I, we had each other,
and now—and now—" She paused and caught her breath with a sob. "You
don't understand," she added confusedly.

"I think I do. I, too, know what it means to lose a mother. It is just
possible, is it not, that my mother may have been as much to me as
yours was to you?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" she answered, touched by the gentleness of his tone.

"That ought to be a link of sympathy between us, at any rate. Now, I'm
going to give you a word of advice. Don't talk of your mother to your
grandfather; but you may talk of her to me, when we are alone. She was
evidently an unusual woman, and I like people who are not ordinary. It
must have been somewhat of an ordeal for you to come here yesterday
alone?"

"Oh, it was! I longed to go back to Bristol without seeing my
grandfather; but I could not do that because of my promise to mother."

"The Priory ought to be your home. Do you know that though you are only
twelve years old, and I am over thirty, you have seen more of life than
I have or ever shall?" There was a touch of repine in his tone, and
his expression of discontent deepened. "My life has been spent mostly
in this sitting-room and the bedroom beyond, so you will not wonder—"
He broke off, paused a minute, then added: "You have interested me
greatly."

"Have I?" she cried, really surprised, but pleased to hear him say so.

"Yes; and I see so few people who really interest me, except the
Vicar—my brother-in-law. He's a good fellow, and I like him, but we do
not always hit it off together—my fault, no doubt. Who chose your name
for you? My brother?"

"No; I have heard mother say she chose it herself. It means 'happiness'
you know."

He smiled assent, then said with a sigh: "No one is happy in this
world."

"Oh, yes!" Felicia exclaimed quickly. "I am sure some people are, but
some don't know the way—"

"I didn't know happiness could be learnt," he said with a light laugh
as she broke off in the midst of her sentence, abashed by the satirical
expression of his face. She was very sensitive to ridicule and looked
quite confused. "I wish you would teach me the way to be happy, if
you know it," he continued in a bantering way; "it's a lesson I
unfortunately never learnt."

"Mother used to say that to be happy one must be good and unselfish,"
Felicia replied in a grave, low voice. "Oh!" she exclaimed with a
sudden change of tone, her face breaking into a smile, "did you hear
that scrape at the door? It's the dog. May I let him in?"

He assented, and she ran and admitted Lion, who evinced great joy at
the sight of her, and when she resumed her seat, took up his position
by her side, resting his great head upon her knee. By-and-by a servant
entered to lay the table for lunch, which Mr. Guy—he was always called
so in the household—insisted on his niece taking with him. Her heart
filled with pity when he left his sofa and crossed the room to the
table, and she realised for the first time how much he was deformed,
but she had the tact not to show it. On the whole, uncle and niece were
not unfavourably impressed with each other; and the former's mental
comment after the latter had left him was—

"The child has individuality, and there is nothing low or common about
her. I am inclined to like this 'ditch flower' as father so aptly
termed her—poor little thing!"



CHAPTER IX

First Days at the Priory

AT Mrs. Price's suggestion, Felicia spent her first afternoon at the
Priory in going over the house. It was a rambling abode, for it had
been added to on several occasions. The wing in which were Mr. Guy's
rooms was comparatively modern, but much of the house was very old,
notably the big dining and drawing rooms, the windows of which opened
upon a smooth, well-kept lawn. In the flower-garden adjoining the house
were the ruins of a chapel, some of the massive walls of which still
stood firm, overgrown with moss and ivy.

It was Ann White who took Felicia over the house, and afterwards
escorted her for a short walk in the grounds. The latter discovered
that the water she had remarked from her bedroom window was a small,
artificial lake, on which a pair of swans and a lot of ducks were
disporting themselves on this fine, summer afternoon. The little
girl was much interested, but rather over-awed by all she saw, for
the Priory appeared a magnificent home in her eyes, quite a palatial
residence, in fact. It was difficult to realise that her father had
been born and brought up in this stately old house, or that the rooms,
over which a melancholy stillness seemed to hang, had ever resounded
with the echo of children's footsteps and children's laughter. Perhaps
some such thoughts were in Ann's mind, too, for as they crossed the
lawn on their way back to the house, she remarked—

"It will be pleasant to have a child about. I'm glad you've come, miss."

"Are you?" questioned Felicia, her pale face brightening.

"Yes," the girl nodded. "The place is strange to you now, and I daresay
it strikes you as big and lonely, but by-and-by you'll grow to love it.
I'm sure you will."

Felicia sighed, for she had grave doubts if such would be the case.
The house filled her with a sensation of nervousness which she had
never experienced elsewhere; she would rather have had the tiniest room
than the large, handsomely furnished apartment she had occupied on the
previous night.

Late in the evening Mr. Renford returned. He sent for Felicia at once,
and interviewed her in his study. He had spent the day in Bristol, he
explained, and had verified her statements.

"I have seen Mrs. M'Cosh, and have brought back all your possessions,"
he said. "In future, your home will be here, and I hope you will be a
good, obedient girl. I think you are a truthful one. To-morrow I will
introduce you to your aunt and cousins, and to your Uncle Guy—"

"Oh, I have seen him!" Felicia interposed quickly.

"Seen him?" he echoed. "Whom?"

"Uncle Guy. We—we had a long talk together, and I had dinner—lunch,
I mean—with him in his sitting-room. I—I did not know I had an uncle
before to-day."

"No? Then your mother told you nothing about your father's relations?"

She shook her head. "Did Mrs. M'Cosh send me no message?" she asked
wistfully.

"Let me see. Yes. She sent her best respects, and desired me to assure
you she would see your mother's grave was not neglected. By the way, I
settled with her for the expenses of your mother's funeral, so you are
no longer under any obligation to her on that account. She would take
nothing else from me."

Mr. Renford looked a little annoyed as he spoke; he would have liked
to have drawn a cheque for an amount which he would have considered
sufficiently large to pay Mrs. M'Cosh for all the trouble she had been
put to in connection with his grand-daughter, but he had not been
allowed to do that. Felicia was beginning to thank him for what he had
done, when he cut her short, and dismissed her.

Immediately she was out of his sight and the study door closed behind
her, she flew upstairs to her own room, where she spent the next
half-hour in unpacking her box, which she found awaiting her. She put
her clothes away in the wardrobe, wondering what the servants would
think of them, for they were patched and darned, and of the cheapest
quality. Then she shed some tears over her mother's Bible, which she
placed on the table by the bedside, meaning to use it herself for the
future, and sobbed bitterly at the sight of her mother's workbox,
containing the simple tools which had helped to earn their daily bread.

"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried in an agony of grief, "why did God let
you die? Oh, I never, never can be happy without you!"

She wept until her head ached, feeling utterly friendless and alone in
the world. Life seemed so dark and dreary, and she dreaded the future
with her grandfather and Uncle Guy. Thoroughly exhausted at last, she
flung herself by the side of the bed and prayed, and by-and-by comfort
came to her, as it surely comes to every soul that holds communion with
God.

The next morning she breakfasted with her grandfather. She was far from
being at her ease with him, for she was conscious he was observing
her closely, and that made her unusually shy and awkward. Her hands
trembled so much with nervousness that she spilt some drops of coffee
on the spotless table-cloth, and she was so overcome with confusion at
the sight of the ugly, brown stains, that the tears rose to her eyes,
and she had some difficulty in retaining her composure.

"Never mind, child," Mr. Renford said, noticing and pitying her
embarrassment, "that's nothing. Why, you're actually shaking! What a
nervous little creature you seem to be!"

She was very thankful when the meal was over. Afterwards her
grandfather sent her to fetch her hat, and informed her he was going to
take her for a walk. Accompanied by Lion they went down the carriage
drive, and ten minutes later found them at the front door of the
Vicarage, which was opened by the Vicar himself.

"I saw you coming from my study window," he explained. "Mary and
the children are in the kitchen garden gathering raspberries for
preserving. Come in and I'll send for them. This—" and he bent his gaze
on the little girl as he spoke—"is, I suppose, Felicia?"

"Yes," Mr. Renford answered; "she is very like her father in features,
you will see."

The Vicar took Felicia's hand and pressed it cordially. He had dark,
near-sighted eyes, grave and kindly in expression, and Felicia returned
his smile with one so frank and bright that her grandfather was
surprised at the difference it made to her face—hitherto she had seemed
on the verge of tears.

Mr. Pring led the way into the dining-room, and there they were
presently joined by his wife and little daughters. Felicia decided she
would like her aunt, who greeted her with a warmth and goodwill which
touched her sorrowful heart, and her cousins expressed themselves glad
to see her, too, especially Molly, who sat down by her side and entered
into conversation with her at once.

"Do you think you will like living at the Priory?" was the first
question Molly asked.

"I—I hardly know," was the doubtful response.

"It's a dear old place. I love it, and so does Doris. I expect
you'll be a bit lonely there at first, though, until you get to know
grandfather better. You are fond of animals, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I thought you must be, because grandfather told us how Lion took a
fancy to you at once, and animals never like those who are not fond of
them. I have lots of pets—rabbits, guinea-pigs, and white mice. Doris
doesn't care for pets, but I am sure you do."

Felicia soon grew at her ease with Molly, and forgot that her
grandfather's eyes were upon her. Though she did not talk much herself,
she evinced great interest in her cousin's remarks; and, being a
regular little chatterbox, Molly gave her a great deal of information
concerning herself and her family, so that she was quite sorry when her
grandfather said she must return with him to the Priory, and declined
to allow her to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage.

"You will have plenty of time with your cousins later on," Mr. Renford
said to Felicia as they were going home; "and I promised Guy you
should spend an hour or so with him this afternoon. Your uncle appears
interested in you, and I am sure if your society gives him any pleasure
I shall be very glad. Poor Guy! he misses his mother sadly."

"Oh, I know he must!" she cried earnestly, deepest sympathy in her
tone. "I am so very sorry for him. It must be terrible to be always
ill. Does he never leave the house?"

"Sometimes he may stroll out into the sunshine for a short while, but
he never goes outside our own grounds. He has not been downstairs for
weeks now. I wish I could rouse him. In his mother's lifetime he used
to join us at meals, but now he takes them in his own sitting-room."

There was an expression of sadness and regret on her grandfather's
countenance which appealed to the little girl's heart. She reflected
that he, too, must have been very lonely since her grandmother's death,
and she was sorry for him. Did she not herself know what it meant to
lose one's best-beloved by death? She would have liked to have put her
sympathy into words, but she was far too shy to make the attempt.

During the next few days she saw her uncle every afternoon. Sometimes
he kept her with him for a long while; sometimes he merely had a few
minutes' conversation with her. He appeared capricious, but so far she
had seen no exhibition of the temper which Ann had mentioned.

About a week after her arrival at the Priory, Felicia passed a very
happy day in the society of her relations at the Vicarage; and she
was delighted to hear of an arrangement which her aunt informed her
was likely to be made for her education, which was that she should be
taught with her cousins by their governess.

"In which case you will come here every morning, dine with us, and
return to the Priory at four o'clock," Mrs. Pring explained. "It is not
quite settled, because we have not yet consulted Miss Barton about it,
but I imagine she will raise no objection to our plan. She will be back
next week, for her mother, whom she went home to nurse, is much better
and able to do without her now. I see you like the idea of studying
with your cousins, my dear."

"Oh, yes," Felicia replied earnestly. "I—I went to the Board School in
Bristol before mother grew very ill. Mother said I must be educated and
she had no money to pay school fees for me. It was different before her
bad illness. Oh, if it had not been for that, I believe she would be
living still! Oh, Aunt Mary, you don't know how people suffer when they
are very, very poor!" And the tears fell whilst Mrs. Pring realised
that there were memories from her little niece's past which nothing
would ever blot out.



CHAPTER X

A Great Surprise

DORIS and Molly Pring found their cousin very reserved at first, and
disinclined to exchange confidences with them, but after a little while
she became more communicative. She refrained from mentioning her mother
to them, however, and kept silence respecting the two years she had
spent in Bristol, for it was easy to see Doris and Molly knew nothing
of trouble, and she shrank sensitively from allowing them an insight
into that time which had been so fraught with poverty and sickness.

Felicia soon discovered that there were no poor people in N—; that is
to say, there were none who lacked the necessaries of life. The heads
of the families in the village were mostly farm labourers, and men
employed in the clay works which were situated half-a-mile distant, and
if they did not get large wages they earned sufficient for their needs,
and their wives and children were comfortably clothed and well-fed.
Most of the cottage homes belonged to Mr. Renford, who was an excellent
landlord, and kept his property in good repair, and if sickness visited
any of his tenants he was always ready to lend them a helping hand.
When Felicia came to understand how much her grandfather was liked and
respected by all who were brought in contact with him, she grew more
and more indignant with him on her mother's account. Why had he allowed
her to die in that Bristol garret when he might have done so much to
help her? She did not reflect that he had been in total ignorance
of her mother's whereabouts, or that Mrs. Renford—fearful of being
parted from her child—had purposely kept him in the dark concerning
her circumstances. Felicia only saw that he was kind to outsiders, to
people who had no real claim upon him, and the remembrance that he
had shown himself hard and unsympathetic to her mother—his own son's
wife—was very, very bitter.

The little girl had been at the Priory fully a fortnight, when one day
Molly Pring brought the news that Miss Barton had returned, and had
consented to take a third pupil under her charge; therefore Felicia
would be expected at the Vicarage on the following morning.

"Mother told me to tell you to be sure to be in good time," said Molly,
"for we begin lessons at the tick of ten o'clock. Why, how pleased you
look! You're much more eager to get to work than I am; for my part, I
wish it was holidays always. But we're very glad to get Miss Barton
back, for we're all very fond of her. You'll like her, Felicia."

When Felicia appeared at the Vicarage at the hour appointed next
morning, she was met at the door by her aunt, who immediately took her
upstairs to the schoolroom, where her cousins and their governess were
awaiting her. The instant Felicia was introduced to Miss Barton she
knew she had seen her before. The swift, observant glance the governess
cast upon her seemed quite familiar, as was the smile which lit up her
pretty face, and Felicia uttered a glad cry of recognition, whilst her
countenance glowed with pleasure.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance—" Miss Barton was beginning
when she paused and looked puzzled. "Have we met before?" she proceeded
doubtfully; "I don't think I remember you, my dear."

"But I remember you!" Felicia burst forth. "Oh, it is
wonderful—wonderful! Of course you don't remember me, although it was
only such a short time since we met, for you only saw me for a minute.
You gave me some lilies—beautiful white lilies; I took them home to my
mother, and she said they came like a message from God to remind her of
His promises. Don't you remember me now? I was looking in the window of
that big shop in Park Street, and you came out with a great bunch of
lilies in your hand, and you never said a word—ah, you remember now!"

Miss Barton had but a slight recollection of the personal appearance
of the child who had been the recipient of her impulsive gift, and she
looked both surprised and puzzled, whilst Mrs. Pring and her little
daughters regarded Felicia in amazement, wondering to see her so
excited.

"I am afraid I don't really remember you," Miss Barton admitted
frankly; "that is to say, I do not recognise you as the same little
girl to whom I gave the flowers."

"Oh, but I am the same!" Felicia broke in eagerly. "Oh, it was good and
kind of you! I wish you could have seen mother's face when she caught
sight of the lilies, and what do you think she said afterwards?—'God
bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is.' Oh, I never
thought I should see you again! How very, very glad I am!"

Miss Barton smiled very kindly at the excited child, and said she was
delighted—and she looked it—to hear that the flowers had given Mrs.
Renford pleasure, whilst Mrs. Pring, grasping the situation at last,
put her arms around her niece and gave her a loving kiss ere she left
the schoolroom in search of her husband to tell him that Felicia and
the governess had met before.

Felicia was happier to-day than she had been since her mother's death,
and when, lessons over at four o'clock, she returned to the Priory,
there was a little pleased smile on her lips, and a faint flush on her
generally pale cheeks. Price informed her that the master was out, but
that Mr. Guy wished to see her at once. She immediately went to her
uncle's sitting-room, and found him lying on the sofa by the window as
usual. A table at his side was littered with papers and magazines, but
he pushed it away as his niece entered.

"Come here, Felicia," he said, "and tell me how you like your
governess."

"Like her? Why, I love her!" she cried enthusiastically, "there isn't
anything I wouldn't do for her!"

"Really? Why, it must have been a case of love at first sight. I had no
idea you were such an impressionable little creature. How bright you
look—and happy."

"I have been very happy to-day," admitted Felicia; "and I never thought
I could be happy again."

He muttered something under his breath about the young having few
lasting griefs, but Felicia heard the words, and her face clouded
immediately. She took a chair near his sofa, the smile fading from her
lips, the light dying out of her blue eyes. For a few minutes there was
silence between them.

"You have not told me the cause of your happiness," he said at length.

"No," she answered in a reserved tone; "I don't think I can. I don't
think I can speak of it to you."

"Why not?" he demanded sharply.

"Because—because it's to do with my mother, and perhaps you would not
understand."

"If not, no harm would be done by your having told me, I suppose?"

"N—o—o," she allowed.

Then, in slightly faltering accents, she spoke to him of the gift of
the white lilies, and tried to explain what it had meant to her mother,
whilst he listened with an interest which increased when he heard that
it had been Miss Barton who had performed the kindly act which had left
such a deep, tender impression on his little niece's mind.

"What a strange coincidence!" he exclaimed. "And she did not recognise
you, you say?"

"No. Oh, I was glad to see her again!"

"It seems a slight thing she did to be so grateful for."

"You don't understand, Uncle Guy; I thought you would not. It was not
a slight thing to mother and me; it seemed as though God sent us the
lilies to remind us of His promises."

"But, Felicia, how could that be?"

"It's in the Bible, you know."

"I don't know, child. I don't read the Bible—to do so would only make
me melancholy. Your grandmother used to try to talk of religion to me,
but I wouldn't have it; and the Vicar—but never mind that. I want to
hear about your mother and the lilies. How could they remind her of
God's promises?"

"Because Jesus spoke of them. He had been telling His disciples not to
trouble about how they should live, because their Father in Heaven knew
all they wanted, and He said: 'Consider the lilies how they grow; they
toil not, they spin not: and yet I say unto you, That Solomon in all
his glory was not arrayed like one of these;' and—oh, don't you—can't
you understand, she remembered how wrong it was to worry and fret,
and that Jesus said, 'Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's
good pleasure to give you the kingdom,' and she knew she ought not to
fear. She told me how she had troubled, and—and I shall never see white
lilies again without thinking of her, lying as I saw her last—" Felicia
paused and caught her breath in a sob. Her uncle was observing her
intently, with a keenly interested expression in his eyes.

"I did not know your mother was a religious woman," he remarked at
length, "and you—are you religious too?"

She looked at him in great surprise, amazed at such a question.

"I—I try to be good," she answered, flushing; "I do try to be, but it's
very hard sometimes, and—and it's so difficult to believe God knows
best—but He does, I'm certain of it deep down in my heart."

"I suppose you read your Bible every day?" he questioned.

"Every day. Mother and I used to read a chapter aloud every morning and
every night."

"Well, look here, suppose you read it to me occasionally. There's
poetry in that verse you repeated to me just now: 'Consider the lilies
how they grow'—and there's a tone in your voice I like—it rings true.
Will you read to me, or would you look on it in the light of an
infliction?"

"Oh, no, no! I would do anything to please you, Uncle Guy, I would
indeed," she answered in all sincerity.

"Thank you. You seem a good-natured little soul, and I believe we shall
be friends. You don't get on with my father, Felicia?" he questioned.

"I—I—" stammered Felicia—"I don't see much of him, Uncle Guy; he's very
kind to me, but I'm rather afraid of him."

"You need not be. By the way, you 're not afraid of me?"

"Not in the least. I like you—I do indeed."

"Ah! you don't really know me yet. My father is much more worthy of
your liking than I am, as you will learn some day. Poor father! he
has had many disappointments in his life, and I'm one of them, though
nothing would make him admit it. Now, go and take off your hat, and
order tea to be brought here; we will have it together."

"To think that she should set up for being religious," he mused, after
Felicia had left the room to do his bidding; "and she was so serious
about it too. Evidently she is sincere. That was a strange story about
the lilies; it touched me somehow. 'Consider the lilies how they grow.'
Ah, yes! one can believe in the God of love when one looks on the
perfection of beauty, but it's the poor, misshapen allowed to disfigure
the world that makes one doubt His omnipotence. Ah, me! I must be
careful to say nothing to cloud that child's innocent faith. It must be
a great solace to be able to believe that God is good."



CHAPTER XI

Uncle Guy's Temper

FELICIA'S life now became one of routine. Every morning she breakfasted
with her grandfather; then, Sundays excepted, went to the Vicarage,
where she remained with her cousins, sharing their studies, and
returning to the Priory at four o'clock. She frequently took tea with
her uncle in his sitting-room, at his desire, after which she prepared
her lessons for the following day, retiring to rest subsequent to an
early supper. Mr. Renford dined alone in the large dining-room, and
generally spent the evening by himself, though occasionally he sat an
hour with his son, or paid a visit to his daughter. He was naturally of
a sociable disposition, and must have often grown very weary of his own
society.

"They are beginning to cut the corn in that big field at the back of
the Vicarage," Felicia informed her uncle one August evening as she
stood at his sitting-room window looking into the garden, gay with
dahlias and other showy autumn flowers. "It's such a pity you never go
out, Uncle Guy, for everything's so lovely. You haven't been downstairs
once since I came."

"And probably I never may again," he responded moodily.

"Oh, don't say that! Why shouldn't you come downstairs and go into the
garden? It's not as though you were lame or couldn't walk."

"Has my father been telling you to say this to me?" he demanded.

"Oh, no!"

"Because he's been lecturing me on the point himself. He might as well
leave me in peace instead of advising me 'to rouse myself and try to
take an interest in life,' as he put it. If his back ached as mine does
sometimes, he'd have more sympathy with me, perhaps."

The querulous tone in which this was said was full of bitterness, and
Felicia thought it wiser to make no reply. She knew her grandfather
was far from being unsympathetic—indeed, he always made his son his
first consideration—and she thought her uncle had no right to speak
of him complainingly. Evidently the invalid was in one of his most
dissatisfied moods. The little girl had been warned by Mrs. Price that
there was no pleasing Mr. Guy to-day, and she would certainly have kept
away from him if he had not sent a message to her to the effect that he
desired her company as soon as she had finished her lessons. And now
she was here, he did not appear to want her. She had offered to read
to him, as she had done on several previous occasions—sometimes from
the Bible—but he had declined to listen to her. The truth was, he had
worked himself into a state of nervous irritability on account of a
conversation he had had with his father, during which Mr. Renford had
urged him to come downstairs and dine that night, and he had declined
to do so.

"It's all very well for those in good health to say I should bestir
myself," he proceeded; "I'm tired of being preached at. It's always
the same old lore, first from my sister, then from her husband, and
even Doris and Molly keep up the refrain, 'You ought to come out in
the sunshine!' Ought I? I think I should be allowed to do as I like.
There's Lion at the door, Felicia, you may as well let him in first as
last, for he'll keep on scrape-scrape-scrape till you do."

[Illustration: "GET OUT OF SIGHT, YOU AND THE DOG TOO!"]

The little girl admitted the dog, and returned to her former post at
the window, whilst Lion approached the sofa, and wagging his tail
with the utmost amiability, commenced to lick the invalid's hand. To
Felicia's astonishment her uncle repulsed the dog, hitting him across
the head with the magazine he was holding at the moment. Startled at
this unexpected reception of his caress, Lion sprang awkwardly aside
and knocked over a small table which held several books and a handsome
Venetian vase which Mrs. Pring had presented to her brother on his last
birthday. The poor dog, puzzled at the treatment he had received from
one who was usually kind to him, and shocked at the mischief he had
wrought, retreated into a corner of the room, whilst Felicia set the
table on its legs and picked up the scattered books, but the beautiful
vase was smashed.

"Oh, what a pity!" the little girl exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle Guy, your vase
is broken into several pieces! Oh, how sorry I am!"

She paused, too frightened to continue, for her uncle's face was
actually distorted with passion, and his eyes blazed with rage.

"Get out of my sight!" he cried roughly, "you and the dog, too! You
have done mischief enough for one day. Go away, I say!"

"But, uncle, it was not my fault, I could not help it. You told me to
let Lion in," she reminded him.

"I know that, but he would not have come scraping at the door if you
had not been here. He follows you like your shadow. Oh, what a day this
has been! Am I never to be allowed any peace? Go away! Do you hear? Go
away, and take Lion with you."

Frightened and indignant, Felicia hastened to do his bidding. She spoke
to Lion, who came to her immediately, and with her hand on his collar
she led him out of the room. In the corridor she encountered Price, and
told him what had happened. The old man appeared sorry, and sought to
soothe her ruffled feelings.

"You mustn't take notice of anything Mr. Guy may say or do," he said
gravely; "he isn't himself when he's in a passion, and he'll be sorry
enough to-morrow that he so forgot himself to-day. The fact is, he's
had his own way all his life, miss, and his mother spoilt him. You must
make allowances for him, as we all do."

Felicia felt very little inclined to make allowances for her uncle at
present, seeing that it had been simply to please him she had visited
him at all that night. She would much rather have spent her leisure
hour in the garden than in listening to the invalid's grumblings; but
it was not too late now to have a breath of fresh air before supper,
and, followed by Lion, she hastened downstairs and out of the front
door.

It was growing dusk, for the August evenings were shortening, but she
thought she would have time to go as far as the lake ere it became
dark, and she started in that direction, her cheeks aflame with
indignation, her heart full of resentful feelings against Uncle Guy.
Who, seeing him to-night, would think he could be so nice and kind? It
should be a long while, she determined, before she would consent to
keep him company again; and if he wanted someone to read to him—well,
she would not be that someone, that was all.

"It was shameful of him to hit Lion like that," she mused, "and cruel
too! How could he have done it? What a temper he was in, to be sure!
And I'm in a temper now, but then I've a right to be angry, and he had
none."

Her eyes were so full of tears that she could scarcely see where she
was going, and her heart was aching badly, for she had grown very fond
of Uncle Guy; and then, who should she meet but her grandfather taking
his after dinner stroll, and of course he noticed her emotion, and
asked her what was amiss. In faltering accents she explained to him
what had occurred.

"Poor Lion! Poor old fellow!" he exclaimed, with a sigh, as he caressed
his favourite. "I am sorry you have been in mischief, old boy. He
couldn't help it—eh? No, I understand. It is rather late for you to be
out, Felicia; you had better return with me."

"Yes, grandfather," she responded obediently.

"Cheer up, my dear. You have looked so much brighter lately, and I have
been very pleased to see it. I want you to be happy—you should try to
live up to your name. Your uncle is not himself to-day; you must not
grieve because he was cross—"

"He was so—so unjust!" Felicia interposed; "it wasn't fair of him to
turn on me like that when he had sent for me. Next time he sends for me
I won't go."

"I think you will, my dear; I am sure you will not bear malice in your
heart," Mr. Renford said quietly, with a ring of sadness in his voice;
"I've done that before now, myself, and I've lived to regret it. Do you
see that tree?" he asked with a change of tone, indicating a high elm
in the distance. "I remember your father climbing it once when he was a
small boy, and being unable to come down again; I had to climb up and
fetch him."

Felicia looked at the tree with great interest, and ventured to put a
few questions about her father's childhood, all of which Mr. Renford
evidently took pleasure in answering. It was evident he had been deeply
attached to his elder son. By-and-by Felicia asked him, rather timidly,
if he had any objection to her writing to Mrs. M'Cosh.

"She was very kind to me," the little girl said earnestly, "and though
I didn't promise to write, I feel sure she would like to hear from me,
and I should like to tell her how I am getting on, and about Aunt Mary
and my cousins, and—and—everyone."

"Write to her by all means," he responded heartily; "I do not wish you
to appear ungrateful, and you might get Mrs. Price to pack a hamper
with a nice chicken, and some butter, and eggs, and cream—and send her
as a little present. People in town always welcome a hamper from the
country. It is to be sent in your name, remember that."

"Oh, grandfather, thank you! How good of you! Mrs. M'Cosh will be
delighted."

The tone of Felicia's voice spoke her pleasure. She caught Mr.
Renford's hand and squeezed it gratefully; then, with an abrupt
revulsion of feeling, she burst into tears.

"What is it?" her grandfather asked in astonishment. "Why are you
crying, my dear?"

"It—it is very foolish of me," sobbed Felicia, "but I was thinking—oh,
don't be angry!—how I wished mother was living, and—and I was sending
a hamper to her. It's dreadful to remember I can never do anything for
her more, and—and there was so little I could do for her when she was
alive."

"But that little you did, child," Mr. Renford reminded her in a tone
which showed he was inexpressibly touched. "Mrs. M'Cosh told me you
were the greatest comfort your mother had. I wish she had not hidden
herself from me, and I wish—but it's useless regretting the past. I
may have been a hard man—God forgive me if I have—but I was certainly
never so heartless as your mother thought. Maybe I misjudged her, and
certainly she misjudged me. But come, my dear, the dew is falling and
we must go indoors. Come, Lion."

The dog followed them obediently into the house. His tail hung between
his legs, and his manner was depressed as though he was conscious—as no
doubt was the case—that he had been unjustly served; and there was a
very wistful expression in his eyes which appealed to Felicia's tender
heart. The greater part of her indignation against her uncle was on
poor Lion's account.



CHAPTER XII

Felicia Speaks Out

FELICIA had determined it should be a long while before she would visit
her uncle again without he sent for her, in which case she supposed,
on reflection, she would be obliged to do his bidding; but when, on
the evening after he had treated her so unjustly, she had finished
preparing her lessons for the next day, and had gone into the garden,
something prompted her to fix herself on a seat under an arbutus tree,
from which she could, if she liked, view the more modern wing of the
Priory and the windows of her uncle's apartments.

At first she studiously avoided glancing at the upper windows of the
house, and opening the story-book she had brought out-of-doors with
her—one Doris had lent her—she commenced to read; but she failed to
find it interesting. On ordinary occasions the tale would have chained
her attention, but this evening she could not concentrate her thoughts.
Other words than those on the printed page kept recurring to her
mind—words she had read in her Bible that morning: "And be ye kind one
to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for
Christ's sake hath forgiven you."

"Uncle Guy wasn't kind to me last night," she reflected; "of course, if
he sent for me I'd go to see him, I shan't otherwise."

She glanced up hastily, but the lace curtains were drawn before her
uncle's sitting-room window; she saw one move, however, and guessed
she was being watched from inside. If Uncle Guy would pull back the
curtain and beckon to her, or even give her a smile of encouragement,
she would go and talk to him for a little while; but though she stared
at the window for several minutes, there was no further sign that she
was observed.

"And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted—"

Felicia sighed as the words rang in her ears again. She had not had
much time to think of Uncle Guy during the day, for her mind had been
fully occupied with her lessons, and on her return to the Priory at
four o'clock she had sought Mrs. Price and consulted her about the
hamper her grandfather had said was to be sent to Mrs. M'Cosh. Mrs.
Price had promised the hamper should be despatched on the morrow, and
Felicia had accordingly written to her kind friend telling her what she
was to expect and when it would arrive, so that she had really had no
opportunity to dwell on Uncle Guy's harshness to her till now. And he
had been very harsh to her, she reminded herself, as her heart began
to soften towards him. He had spoken roughly, and his temper had been
unjustifiable. Still, he must be very lonely, she thought, and perhaps
unhappy, too. If he would only look out of the window for a moment, she
would be able to judge by the expression of his face if he wanted her
or not; she hesitated to go to him, fearing a repulse.

Once more she tried to read, but it was no good, she could not; so
at last she shut the book with an impatient sigh, and rising, walked
slowly across the lawn towards the house. At the front door Lion joined
her, and followed her upstairs. Her mind was made up now, she was going
to see Uncle Guy, whether he wished it or not.

"You must be on your best behaviour if you come with me," Felicia
informed her companion gravely; "I daresay Uncle Guy won't want either
of us, but we'll certainly find out."

Lion wagged his tail by way of response, and hurrying ahead, preceded
her down the corridor, pausing before the crimson-curtained door.
Felicia's hand trembled as she pulled back the curtain, and gave a
gentle tap.

"Who's there?" demanded her uncle's voice, in a by no means amiable
tone.

"It is I, Uncle Guy—Felicia," she responded timidly, "and Lion is here,
too."

"Well—come in."

The tone of his voice had decidedly changed; it spoke a kind of
pleased eagerness now. The little girl opened the door and stood on
the threshold of the room, her hand on the dog's collar. Her uncle was
seated on a chair by the window; he had evidently been looking out. His
face brightened into a smile as he turned it towards his visitors.

"So it is you, Felicia," he said; "I did not expect you. I thought you
would not come."

"I—I didn't mean to come. I—I thought very likely you might not want
me, and if you do not, I will go away again."

"Nonsense! Come in."

"And Lion, too? Both of us?" she questioned dubiously.

"Yes."

After shutting the door behind her, Felicia crossed to the window, the
dog still at her side.

"I have been watching you under the arbutus tree," observed her uncle,
"but you did not appear much interested in your book. Is it not an
entertaining one?"

"Not very—at least, I did not find it so. Doris lent it to me."

Felicia glanced at the small table, minus now the beautiful Venetian
vase. Her uncle followed the direction of her eyes, and he said
impulsively—

"It was good of you to come and see me to-night, child; I don't think I
could have done it in your place. I should have been more inclined to
stay away and leave my cantankerous uncle to himself."

"That's just what I did feel inclined to do," confessed Felicia
ingenuously.

"Then what made you come?" he asked in astonishment.

"I thought it would be unkind to stay away—if you wanted me."

"You had not forgotten that I had treated you unkindly last night?"

"No; and Lion has not forgotten how you treated him either. Look at
him, Uncle Guy."

He turned his attention to the dog. The sagacious animal was watching
him with a look of mingled doubt and sadness, which seemed to say, "I
am disappointed in you—you have not served me fairly," but he proved
magnanimous, and when Mr. Guy patted his head and spoke to him in a
gentle tone, his reproachful eyes softened, and his whole demeanour
showed that he was willing to overlook past injustice, if he could not
forget it.

"There, Lion, you and I are friends once more," Mr. Guy observed,
"though I fear you hold but a poor opinion of me, old dog. Come,
Felicia, you are not hard-hearted, you will forgive me for my
ill-temper, won't you? Yes, I knew you would; but I suppose you did
bear malice in your heart—eh?"

"I—I—yes," Felicia admitted; "it made me very unhappy, and even when I
was under the arbutus tree I never intended seeing you to-night without
you sent for me—but I couldn't stay away."

"How was that?"

"I kept on thinking of that verse in the Bible about being kind and
tender-hearted, and so—and so I had to come."

"What is the verse? Repeat it to me."

Felicia did so, in a low tone and rather hesitatingly, for she was
always a little shy and fearful that Uncle Guy would misunderstand her.
He made no comment, however, but, by-and-by, he asked her what she had
been talking about to his father on the previous night, he had heard
their voices in the garden; whereupon, her grave countenance broke into
smiles, and she informed him of the present which was to be sent to
Mrs. M'Cosh.

"I have written telling her to expect it," she explained. "Oh, won't
she be pleased? Dear Mrs. M'Cosh! I don't suppose I shall ever see her
again," she added regretfully.

"Why not? My father often goes to Bristol; you must persuade him to
take you with him one day to visit your old friends."

"Oh, do you think he would?" Felicia cried excitedly.

"Well, I hardly know; still, there would be no harm in asking him. I
believe, really, he would like you to forget your old life; but it does
not appear that he was unfavourably impressed by Mrs. M'Cosh. Father is
rather a good judge of character."

"Have you ever been to Bristol, Uncle Guy?" inquired Felicia.

"No, never. I suppose you had no opportunities for seeing the sights of
the place?"

"On Sundays, when mother was pretty well, we used to go to the
Cathedral, or to St. Mary Redcliffe, or to one or another of the city
churches; and one afternoon last summer we went to Clifton and crossed
the Suspension Bridge to the Leigh woods. Oh, that was splendid! We did
have such a good time! We went home by the hot wells—"

Felicia broke off, suddenly remembering that never as long as she lived
would she share a pleasure again with the dear companion of those days.
Her uncle noticed her emotion, but he made no comment upon it; instead,
he turned his attention from her, and rising, moved about the room as
though in search of something. By-and-by Felicia, having furtively
wiped her eyes, glanced towards him and saw he was turning over a heap
of books on a side table at the end of the room.

"What are you looking for, Uncle Guy?" she asked. "Can I help you
search for it?"

"No, thank you. Here it is. It is only an old photograph album
I thought I should like to show you, in which there are several
likenesses of your father taken when he was a boy."

Uncle and niece seated themselves on the sofa side by side whilst they
looked through the pages of the album. Felicia was delighted with the
photographs of her father, and also those of her grandparents; but she
was disappointed that there was not even one of her uncle, and said so.

"Did you never have your likeness taken, Uncle Guy?" she inquired.

"Good gracious, no, child! Who would want the picture of an ugly fellow
like me—a hunchback?"

She caught the ring of mingled pain and bitterness in his tone, and
remained silent for a minute, uncertain what answer to make. That he
was very sensitive on the point of his deformity she was aware, for her
cousins had told her he shrank from meeting strangers on that account,
but he had never mentioned it to her before.

"Why do you speak of yourself like that, Uncle Guy?" she said at length
reproachfully. "Did anyone ever love you the less because—because of
that? Didn't your mother love you? I know she did, for Mrs. Price told
me you were always her favourite child. And grandfather—why, if he
didn't love you, he wouldn't trouble because you keep yourself shut up
here; and he does trouble about it, Uncle Guy, and so does Aunt Mary.
Molly was telling me only this morning that you used to go to the
Vicarage when your mother was alive, and you never go now—and they're
all so fond of you, too! I think it's very unkind of you not to try to
make them all happier. Don't you think grandfather must be dreadfully
lonely, sometimes? I do—and oh, I do feel sorry for him!"

"And aren't you sorry for me?"

"Yes, indeed, I am, when you're ill and suffering."

"You think me selfish, I perceive."

"I—I don't think you're very—kind," she confessed; "perhaps I ought not
to say so, but—"

"Oh, I like to hear the truth, even if it is unflattering. Say on!"

"Now you're angry, I'm afraid," she said deprecatingly.

"No," he answered, and there was a slight smile on his lips, though the
expression of his face was grave; "I will reflect, at leisure, on the
lecture you have seen fit to give me, Felicia; it is a subject which
requires some consideration."



CHAPTER XIII

One Saturday

EVERY Saturday was a holiday for Felicia and her cousins, and the
former was not expected at the Vicarage, but nevertheless she generally
found her way there, if Molly did not call for her at the Priory;
and Mrs. Pring was satisfied that the plan, which she herself had
originated, of educating her niece with her daughters was answering
well. Sometimes Doris and Molly took tea with Felicia at the Priory,
and then the latter could not help remarking that her cousins were
rather in awe of Uncle Guy, and seemed happier when they were out
of his presence; they were never at their best before him, Doris in
particular always showing to a disadvantage by being quieter and more
reserved than usual.

The day following the one on which Felicia had spoken her mind to
her uncle was a Saturday, and at the breakfast-table her grandfather
asked her if she would care to drive with him that afternoon to T—,
the nearest market down. Felicia assented delightedly, and long before
the appointed hour she was ready, so as not to keep Mr. Renford
waiting. Seated by her grandfather's side on the front seat of the
high dog-cart, drawn by Sultan, a big brown horse, she was whirled
along through narrow lanes, across which the hazel bushes, laden with
ripening nuts, nearly met overhead, up hills and down dales, until,
after a long spin on the high road, the town was reached. They stopped
at several shops, out of which the shopkeepers hurried to take Mr.
Renford's orders, and by-and-by drew up before a confectioner's, where
they alighted, and went inside to have tea in a large room upstairs,
whilst Sultan was left in charge of the groom, who walked him up and
down the street.

Felicia was very quiet as she sipped her tea and ate her thin bread
and butter and cake, for she was recalling some afternoons in London
when her mother had taken her to a restaurant to tea, and how greatly
she had enjoyed those occasions. And now, instead of her mother's
pretty face, with its loving smile, on the other side of the little,
marble-topped table, was the sunburnt countenance of her grandfather,
with its firm though not unkindly features, and clear, blue eyes.

"Make a good tea, Felicia," he said; "the drive ought to have made you
hungry. Did you ever have a meal in a place like this before?"

"Oh, yes, grandfather, when I was at school, but not lately—never in
Bristol."

"Ah! I thought it was no novel experience to you. I remember the
first time I brought Doris and Molly here, they were so taken up
with watching the people at the other tables that they scarcely ate
anything. One could tell at a glance that they were country-bred; but
you keep your eyes from wandering."

Mr. Renford looked pleased. It astonished him often that this
grandchild of his, whose mother had been a "nobody," as he had always
considered her, should have such good manners; never once had he had
occasion to complain of word or action of hers during the six weeks she
had lived beneath his roof, and she had long since ceased to be shy or
awkward in his presence.

"Your aunt and uncle are going to dine with me to-night," he proceeded,
"so we must reach home fairly early. I wanted Guy to join us, but—" He
paused and shrugged his shoulders.

"I wish he would," Felicia said earnestly, a faint colour rising to her
cheeks as she recalled the words she had spoken to her uncle on the
preceding night; "Aunt Mary says he spends a great deal too much time
alone."

"Yes, brooding over his affliction, poor fellow. Still, I do think
he has been brighter since your arrival, child; he likes you to be
with him. I often wonder what you find to talk to him about. Have you
finished your tea? Yes. Then we will go."

The drive back to the Priory was even pleasanter than the one to T—
had been, for it was much cooler now. They reached home in good time,
and, having thanked her grandfather for the pleasure he had given
her, Felicia ran upstairs, and sought her uncle to tell him what an
enjoyable afternoon she had spent. But he was not to be found in his
sitting-room, and Ann White, whom Felicia met in the corridor, informed
her that Mr. Guy had gone downstairs.

"Gone downstairs!" echoed Felicia. "Oh, I am glad! Then he means to
dine with grandfather to-night?"

"I believe so, miss."

The little girl went to her own room to change her dusty frock for
another. Her scanty wardrobe had been replenished by Mrs. Price,
according to her grandfather's orders, and she had no lack of clothes
now. A feeling of bewilderment crept over her sometimes when she
compared her present life to that she had lived with her mother in
their attic home. Oh, if only she had her dear mother with her to share
the comforts of the Priory, how contented she would be! The one drop of
bitterness which spoilt her cup of happiness was the remembrance that
her mother had suffered privations, and had died in poverty.

By-and-by Mrs. Price knocked at the door, and on being told to come in,
entered, with a beaming countenance.

"Your grandfather desires you to dine with him to-night, miss," she
said; "he sent me to tell you so. Your aunt and the Vicar are coming,
you know."

"Oh!" cried Felicia nervously, "I have never dined of an evening
before; I do hope I shall do nothing out of the way. I suppose Uncle
Guy will be there?"

"Yes. The master was so pleased to find him downstairs. Come, miss,
you mustn't dawdle, or you'll be late, for it's nearly seven o'clock,
and—there, I hear your aunt's voice in the hall. Let me help you. I'll
do your hair, shall I?"

Ten minutes later Felicia walked slowly downstairs and entered the
drawing-room. It was a large room, facing the west, and was flooded
with sunshine on this August evening, for the master of the house loved
light and air, and kept the blinds pulled up. He stood by one of the
open windows in conversation with his daughter, and he glanced towards
Felicia with a smile as she came into the room.

"I thought you might as well dine with us to-night, child, as take your
supper alone," he remarked kindly. "The drive has given her quite a
colour, hasn't it, Mary?" he questioned, turning to his daughter.

"It has, indeed," Mrs. Pring replied, smiling at the little girl.

"She is looking very well," observed the Vicar, who stood side by side
with his brother-in-law on the hearth-rug. He peered at Felicia in his
near-sighted way as he spoke.

And then Uncle Guy added his comment—

"Our ditch flower is beginning to bloom," he said.

After all, Felicia did not find dining with her relations such a trying
experience as she had anticipated; nevertheless, she was relieved
when the meal was over. Mrs. Pring gave most of her attention to her
brother, being genuinely delighted at his presence. He was in the best
of humours, and it astonished Felicia to see how amusing he could be
when he chose.

"If only Guy would think less of his affliction and take more interest
in the world at large he would be so much better and happier," she
overheard the Vicar whisper to her grandfather after dinner, when the
brother and sister were carrying on a lively conversation. "I wish we
could get him to the Vicarage sometimes."

Once during the evening Felicia had a conversation alone with Uncle
Nathaniel, as she had learnt to call the Vicar. She had stepped out of
the drawing-room window into the garden when he joined her.

"A beautiful night," he said, drawing a long breath to drink in the
fragrance of the flowers. "Do you see that glow in the east? The moon
is about to rise."

"Uncle Guy says it makes him melancholy to watch the sky," remarked
Felicia; "I wonder why it should. I love to see the moon rise, and the
stars come peeping out like eyes. On fine nights at home—I mean where
we lived in Bristol—we used to watch for the moon to rise from behind
the chimneys, and I used to say, 'Let us guess which chimney-pot the
moon will come out of to-night,' for it really looked as though the
moon did come out of the chimney." She laughed, then grew suddenly
grave. "When mother died I thought I should never laugh again," she
went on in a troubled tone, "but somehow, lately, I've found myself
smiling over the little jokes she and I used to have together—it's not
that I forget she's gone—oh, it's not that!"

"Why should you not smile, my dear child? Your mother is not lost to
you altogether; you are only separated from her for the time. Be happy
if you can, enjoy the good things God sends you, and accept them as
blessings with a thankful heart."

"It is a comely fashion to be glad, Joy is the grace we say to God."

"I consider those lines are worth bearing in mind. Never think you
ought not to be glad."

"But—but it seems as though it must be wrong to be happy when—when
mother was so poor, and—"

"My dear little girl," the Vicar interposed, "do not be always thinking
of what is past; think instead of your mother in the presence of her
Saviour as one of those who have come out of great tribulation and have
washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. 'They
shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more,' and trouble shall no
more have power to touch them, for 'God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes.'"

"Oh, you believe that, don't you?" said Felicia earnestly.

"Most certainly I do. It is the Christian's sure hope—"

"Because, do you know, I don't think Uncle Guy does believe it!" she
broke in.

The Vicar started, and across his kind face there flitted an expression
of anxiety and pain.

"What makes you think he does not?" he asked. "Has he been discussing
the subject with you?"

"Oh, no. But he doesn't seem to believe that God cares anything about
him, and when he speaks of his mother he never does so as though he
hopes to see her again, and yet I know he loves her. Oh, no wonder
he is so wretched, sometimes, poor Uncle Guy! What should I feel if
I thought I should never meet my mother more? Oh, I believe my heart
would break!"

"Felicia, listen to me," the Vicar said earnestly; "I see you have
discovered your uncle has not that faith in His Father in Heaven which
is the guiding light of every true Christian. Pray for him that what
is dark to him now may be made plain to him. His lack of faith was a
terrible grief to his poor mother; and it was her constant prayer that
he might be brought into Christ's fold. As she lay dying she told me
that she believed one day her prayers would be answered, and that your
uncle's heart would find rest and happiness. Does he ever speak to you
about religion?"

"Not often; but sometimes of an evening I have read the Bible to him."
And she explained how that had come to pass.

The Vicar was evidently much surprised, and he heard all she told him
with great interest.

"He says he likes listening to my voice, and he always lets me choose
the parts I like best, so I read to him from the New Testament
generally. He's rather interested in Saint Paul—he says he had a fine
intellect, and he liked hearing how he talked to Agrippa," Felicia
concluded thoughtfully.

The Vicar smiled but rather sadly.

"Weren't you surprised to find Uncle Guy downstairs to-night?" the
little girl asked after a brief silence.

"Most agreeably surprised. What are you looking so mysterious about?"

But Felicia shook her head smilingly, and declined to say. She had no
intention of telling her companion of the conversation she had had
with her uncle on the previous evening, though she had little doubt
her impulsively spoken words had had something to do with causing
him to throw off his inertness and bestir himself to-night; and she
was certain of it when her bedtime came, for on saying "Good-night"
to Uncle Guy, he detained her to whisper in a low tone so that only
herself should hear—

"By the way, Felicia, I considered your lecture, and—you see the
result."



CHAPTER XIV

Doris is Jealous

IT was an oppressively hot August day—far too hot to go out into the
sunshine for pleasure—and Miss Barton and her pupils were spending the
hour before dinner, which they usually passed in the open air, in the
schoolroom at the Vicarage. From the window was an extensive view of
fields golden with ripening grain, and others where the corn was being
cut, whilst in the big field adjoining the kitchen garden, at the back
of the house, the sheaves stood in mows, ready to be carted away.

"There's not a breath of air stirring," remarked Molly, as she leaned
head and shoulders out of the window; "I believe it's the hottest day
we've had this year."

"I think it was quite as hot in June," responded Felicia; "at least, it
was in Bristol. I remember—"

"What do you remember?" asked Doris curiously. She was leaning back in
an easy-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. She had been watching
Felicia with a thoughtful expression on her countenance and a sensation
of jealousy in her heart, because her cousin had driven with her
grandfather to T— on Saturday, and she would have liked to have gone
herself. "Go on, Felicia," she said a trifle impatiently; "why do you
stop?"

"I was only going to say that I remember my mother fainted with the
heat one day in June; but then, of course, she was ill and felt it more
on that account. Oh, it was dreadfully hot in—where we lived!"

"By the way, in what part of Bristol did you live?" asked Molly; "you
have never told us. Mother took us to Bristol to see an exhibition of
pictures in the spring; I wish we'd known you were living there then;
we'd have called to see you."

"I'm glad you didn't!" Felicia exclaimed involuntarily. "That is," she
added in some confusion, "I don't think you would have cared for the
part where we lived, and it was right at the top of the house, in one
room—"

She paused, struck by the expression of bewilderment on the faces of
both of her cousins. Although she had never told them of her life in
Bristol, she had imagined they must know about it; but she now saw that
they had been ignorant concerning the full extent of the poverty she
and her mother had endured.

"You lived in one room!" Molly cried in shocked tones. "Oh, Felicia,
were you so poor as that? We knew your mother was obliged to do
needlework, but we never knew before that you lived in one room. Oh,
how awful!"

"It wasn't awful," Felicia said quickly; "though, of course, we didn't
like it; and it was bitterly cold in winter, and dreadfully hot in the
summer—because it was close to the roof."

"It must have been a great change for you when you came to the Priory,"
observed Doris reflectively.

"Oh, it was! Sometimes, even now, I have to pinch myself to make sure
I am myself, for it seems so unreal to have plenty of everything—food,
and clothes, and—"

"Do you mean to say you hadn't always enough to eat?" questioned Molly,
her face full of amazement and concern.

"We were never without bread, but it was difficult to earn the money
for that sometimes, and when mother was ill, I don't know what we
should have done but for Mrs. M'Cosh."

"Mrs. M'Cosh? Who is she?" inquired Doris.

"A kind, good woman—a mason's wife—who lived in the same house with
us. You know I stayed with a friend after mother died? That was Mrs.
M'Cosh."

"Oh, how funny!" said Doris. "Fancy having a mason's wife for your
friend! I wonder what grandfather would say to that?"

"He knows," Felicia replied, colouring, for there was derision in
Doris's voice; "and he sent her a present on Saturday—a hamperful of
nice things."

"The idea of his doing that! I am surprised," declared Doris.

"Why?" asked Molly; "of course, if this Mrs. M'Cosh was kind to
Felicia, grandfather would feel grateful to her, wouldn't he, Miss
Barton?"

"I should think so," the governess agreed, joining in the conversation
for the first time.

"I should think not, judging from what I know of him," Doris persisted;
"I should think he would want Felicia to have nothing more to do with
her, if she is only a common woman. Why, he would have taken Felicia
away from her own mother altogether—"

She paused, looking a little frightened, for she had said more than
she had intended, and her eyes fell guiltily beneath Miss Barton's
reproachful gaze. The fact was she was daily growing more and more
jealous of Felicia, who she feared would have pleasures which would
be denied to Molly and herself. She was jealous, not only because her
grandfather had driven Felicia to T—, but because the little girl had
dined with him afterwards. Neither she nor Molly had ever dined at
the Priory in their lives. Then, too, she was jealous of Uncle Guy's
showing a preference for Felicia's society; and because, in short, the
cousin who she had really pitied, though, truth to tell, she had rather
despised her by reason of her mother's lowly birth, appeared likely to
become a general favourite.

"I don't believe grandfather would have taken her away from her
mother really," said Molly; "that is, not against her mother's wish.
Grandfather never means to be unkind, I'm sure. What's the matter with
you, Doris? You're evidently very cross, and you don't know how ugly
you look when you're in a bad temper."

"Hush, Molly!" chided Miss Barton; "don't try to tease your sister, my
dear."

"Then Doris mustn't be nasty," Molly returned, glancing anxiously at
Felicia who was looking much distressed. "I think if anyone had been
kind to me I should be grateful—even if she was a mason's wife. But I
daresay Doris wouldn't, for she's a bit of a snob at heart."

"Molly," flashed out Doris, "how dare you say so!"

"Molly, Molly, I will not have you speak of your sister in that way,"
Miss Barton said sternly.

"Well, it's true what I've said," Molly declared; "Doris wouldn't make
a friend of anyone who doesn't live in a nice house, and—"

"Don't I visit the villagers sometimes with mother?" broke in Doris
indignantly.

"Yes; but that's different—"

"Oh, children, children, don't wrangle!" interposed Miss Barton; "what
is there for you to get so angry about? I am sorry though, Doris, to
hear you speaking of someone as 'common' again, for it is an ill-bred
mode of speech, as I have told you before. I am surprised at you. I
think if you remembered that every time you bend your knees in prayer
it is to worship Him who, when He lived on this earth, was regarded as
only a common man, a carpenter's son, one who made His friends mostly
amongst common people, such as fishermen and those of the labouring
classes, you would speak with greater respect of working folks."

Doris hung her head in sudden shame, whilst Felicia's face cleared of
the shadow which had overspread it, and Molly said gravely—

"Father says we ought not to judge people by their position in life, or
by their money, because those are things that pass away."

"Yes, but goodness remains, and it crops up often where we least expect
it," Miss Barton replied.

"Oh, yes!" agreed Felicia eagerly. "I am certain if you saw Mrs.
M'Cosh—she is very plain, and has a big red face—and heard her gruff
voice, you would think she was a grumpy old thing, and really she's one
of the dearest, kindest souls in the world. I am sure if Doris knew her
she would think so too."

"Do tell us some more about her," said Molly; "why have you never
spoken of her before?"

"I—I did not quite like to speak to you about how very, very poor we
used to be," admitted Felicia; "and I couldn't talk much of Mrs. M'Cosh
without speaking of that."

A few minutes later the dinner-bell rang, and the conversation was not
resumed afterwards. When Felicia returned to the Priory at four o'clock
she was in a somewhat depressed condition of mind, which had been
brought about by the knowledge, which had become more and more apparent
to her during the day, that her elder cousin had a grievance against
her. She could not imagine what it could be; but she was certain she
had somehow offended Doris.

On entering the house she found a letter awaiting her, and on opening
it saw it was from Mrs. M'Cosh. It ran as follows, in a laboured
handwriting:—

  "MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,"
      "You cannot tell what a great pleasure
   it was to master and me to receive your letter.
   I was that glad I could have cried. It is so
   good to know you are well cared for, and that
   everyone is kind to you."

      "Your grandfather is not in the least like
   what I had pictured him, or like what your poor,
   dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure he
   will do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear your
   uncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to be
   a comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I are
   glad you have an aunt and cousins, and that you
   like them so much. Fancy the lady who gave you
   those lilies being your governess! It is wonderful."

      "And now I must speak of the present you sent
   us, which arrived quite safe. I never received such
   a hamperful of good things in my life before.
   The butter and cream were most delicious, and the
   fowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of the
   eggs was smashed—master said they looked as though
   they had been laid by country hens, but, of course,
   that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,
   and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he must
   have had something to do with sending us such a
   handsome present."

      "On Saturday evening master and I walked to the
   cemetery, and master clipped the grass which is
   growing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, you
   mustn't grieve for her more than you can help, for
   she's gone to a world where she's better off than
   the richest of us here, and I know she'd wish you
   to be happy—happy and good."

      "And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, for
   master and I go on just the same as usual, so I will
   bring my letter to a close. Please give my best
   respects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,
   and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeing
   how things have changed for you lately—you haven't
   a truer well-wisher than your friend.    MARIA M'COSH"

"She used to call me 'Felicia,' she calls me 'Miss Felicia' now," mused
the little girl; "I suppose that's because things have changed for
me lately, as she says. She seems to have been very pleased with her
hamper; I'm so glad grandfather told me to send it. It was kind of Mr.
M'Cosh to cut the grass on mother's grave. What is it Mrs. M'Cosh says,
that mother's gone to a world where she's better off than the richest
of us here? Oh, I'm sure of that! But I am glad she wrote it, and
reminded me that mother would wish me to be happy—happy and good."



CHAPTER XV

Under the Arbutus Tree

"MOLLY, what have I done to offend Doris?" asked Felicia of her younger
cousin one Saturday afternoon a few weeks later. "She treats me as
though I had injured her in some way; haven't you noticed it?"

"Yes," admitted Molly reluctantly; "it's very unkind of her, and
foolish too, but Doris is like that."

"Like what?" demanded Felicia in bewilderment. "Do tell me what you
mean, for I haven't the least idea what I have done to annoy her. I'm
sure I wouldn't put her out if I could help it."

The two little girls—devoted friends they were now—had established
themselves on the seat under the arbutus tree in the Priory garden,
with Lion stretched at their feet, asleep. Doris had been asked to
accompany her sister, but she had declined to do so; she had enough of
Felicia's society on working days, she had said, without wanting to
spend the weekly holiday with her, too.

"I think she is jealous of you, Felicia," Molly said gravely, with a
sigh and a troubled expression creeping into her clear eyes.

"Oh, Molly! Because you and I are such great friends?"

"Well, partly that, perhaps, and because Uncle Guy has taken such a
fancy to you. Mother says she's very glad he has, and grandfather's
pleased, but I'm sure Doris is jealous; and—and she was so put out when
she heard grandfather had driven you to T—. Doris is like that, you
know; she's jealous of me, too, if she thinks any one likes me better
than her. Don't you worry about it."

"Oh, but I'm so sorry!" exclaimed Felicia. "If I had known she would
have liked that drive with grandfather so much, I would have asked him
to take her instead of me. Did she see much of Uncle Guy before I came?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then why should she mind?"

"Of course there's no real reason why she should, but she does. Mother
says jealous people are never reasonable. Never mind her—if she likes
to keep herself to herself we'll let her. She'll have a dull afternoon
at the Vicarage, for Miss Barton's gone out with mother, and father's
gone to watch the village lads play cricket. Why, Felicia, surely
that's Uncle Guy standing at the front door!"

"Yes, and he sees us. I believe he's coming here. He spent quite a long
while in the garden yesterday, and afterwards he said he thought it had
done him good. Shall we go and meet him?" And springing to her feet,
Felicia ran across the lawn and caught her uncle by the hand. "Come
and sit under the arbutus tree with Molly and me, Uncle Guy," she said
coaxingly; "it's so cool and pleasant there."

"So I thought," he replied with a smile. "I've been watching you two
from my sitting-room window, wondering what you've been talking about
so seriously. I suppose you have a great many secrets—eh? Well, Molly,
how's the world serving you? Very well? That's good hearing. Oh, I'm to
sit between you, am I?"

"Yes, do," Molly rejoined, thinking what a nice face her uncle had
when he smiled, and what a pity it was he did not always look so
good-tempered. "Are you comfortable? Shall I fetch some cushions?"

"No, no, I'm all right; my back's on its best behaviour to-day. But I'm
afraid I've interrupted a confidential talk—eh, Molly? Where is Doris,
by the way?"

"She preferred to remain at home," Molly answered, with a touch of
reserve in her tone, whilst Felicia looked embarrassed—two facts,
neither of which passed unnoticed by their uncle, though he did not
remark upon them.

"I wonder if Mrs. Price would send out our tea to us here," he
suggested presently; "run indoors and ask her, Felicia." Then, as the
little girl sped across the lawn, he turned to Molly and inquired:
"Why wouldn't Doris come with you this afternoon? Doesn't she like her
cousin?"

"Well, no, I suppose she doesn't," Molly was obliged to admit.

"Why not?"

Molly hesitated, and glanced at her uncle anxiously, doubtful of the
wisdom of taking him into her confidence.

"I'm not sure I ought to tell you," she said at length; "but—but Doris
is very jealous of Felicia, because every one likes her—not only you
and grandfather, but mother, and father, and Miss Barton, too. Doris
says she cannot think what we all see in her to make us like her
so much, and she is always talking about her mother having been a
'nobody,' and saying that Felicia is deceptive. She isn't! Doris says
she makes believe to be religious to please father, but I'm sure that's
not true. Oh, Uncle Guy, you won't tell any one this, will you?"

"Certainly I will not. So Doris thinks Felicia's religion is a
pretence?"

Molly nodded.

"And you don't think so?"

"No, Uncle Guy. It's real."

"Yes, it's real—to her; I believe it's a great comfort and source of
happiness to her. She brought a very sore heart to the Priory, poor
little girl! I am pleased she has a friend in you, Molly."

"I'm so glad you like her, too," Molly declared earnestly.

"Then you are not jealous of her?"

"Oh, Uncle Guy, no!"

"You need not be. It is very cruel to begrudge her a few pleasures
after what her life must have been in the past; perhaps if Doris knew
the privations her cousin has suffered, she would not be jealous of her
because she has fallen upon better days."

"She does know," Molly admitted with a sigh. "Oh, here comes Felicia!
Please don't let her guess we've been talking about her, Uncle Guy."

Felicia was now crossing the lawn, carrying a wicker tea-table, whilst
Ann White followed, bearing a tray with the tea-things. Just at that
moment Mr. Renford came up the carriage drive, and catching sight of
the group under the arbutus tree made towards it.

"That's right, grandfather, come and have some tea!" cried Molly.
"There's no room for you on the seat, but I'll get you a chair," and
she flew into the house and fetched one for him.

"This is pleasanter than indoors—eh, Guy?" said Mr. Renford.

His son assented; and then the question arose which of the little girls
should pour out the tea.

"You, Felicia, because you live here," said Molly, generously willing
to give up what she considered a post of honour.

"No, you, Molly, because you're the elder," Felicia replied; "oh, yes,
please do!"

And seeing her cousin really wished it, Molly officiated at the
tea-table, and felt very important and happy as mistress of the
ceremonies.

"There are several gipsies' caravans on the common outside the
village," Mr. Renford announced by-and-by. "I noticed some gipsy
women selling brushes and tinware at the cottages; I must warn the
servants not to encourage them here. I hope they won't stay long in the
district, for I'm not partial to gipsies."

"Oh, I think they're rather nice!" said Molly; "such a dear little
gipsy boy came to the back door of the Vicarage yesterday to beg a
drink of water. I was in the kitchen at the time, and cook gave him a
glass of milk. He was so grateful. And when I was out in the evening
with father, we met two gipsy men, and they spoke very civilly. But I
did not know they had encamped on the common. How I should like to see
the inside of a caravan, shouldn't you, Felicia?"

"Yes," assented Felicia eagerly; "couldn't we walk to the common
by-and-by, and have a look at the caravans?"

"Certainly not," said Mr. Renford decisively; "I forbid you to go
near the common, for the less one has to do with gipsies the better.
I have a shrewd suspicion that they sup off game from my preserves
every night, for they have several lurchers with them, I notice; and
lurchers, as a rule, are not kept to do nothing—they earn their living,
you may depend. Gipsies are always thieves."

"Isn't that rather a sweeping assertion?" Mr. Guy asked carelessly.

"Well, perhaps it is," his father admitted; "but I mistrust them.
I suppose they are waiting about to attend some fair in the
neighbourhood."

Mr. Renford did not inquire why Doris was not with her sister, and both
Molly and Felicia were relieved that he did not. A very pleasant, two
hours were passed under the arbutus tree, and when Molly returned to
the Vicarage she could talk of nothing but the happy afternoon she had
spent.

"And I poured out the tea," she told Doris; "Felicia made me. Wasn't
that nice of her? If you had been there, of course you would have done
it. It was silly of you to stay away; you missed such an enjoyable
time. Uncle Guy was as nice as anyone possibly could be, and he
looks so much better and brighter than he did a few weeks ago; and
grandfather was in splendid spirits, too, only he seemed rather put out
because some gipsies have encamped on the common. Felicia wanted to go
and look at the caravans, but he forbade her to do so."

"Did grandfather inquire for me?" asked Doris.

"No, he never mentioned your name."

"Oh!" Doris looked decidedly piqued. "I daresay you didn't miss me?"
she said half-questioningly.

"Not much," Molly responded frankly. "How foolish you are, Doris," she
proceeded; "why need you be jealous of Felicia? She feels nothing but
goodwill for you. As Uncle Guy says, it is very cruel to begrudge her a
few pleasures after what her life must have been in the past—"

"You have been talking to Uncle Guy about me?" Doris broke in. "Oh,
how—how mean of you!"

"I could not help it. He questioned me, and you know he is very sharp
and puts two and two together. It's your fault for not going with me
this afternoon. I expect you've had a dull time at home, haven't you?"

Doris was obliged to admit that she had, for, except for the servants,
she had had the house to herself, and time had hung heavily on her
hands. She had grown rather ashamed of her jealous temper during the
hours she had spent in solitude; and now acknowledged to herself that
she had shown herself very small-minded. She determined she would be
nicer and less reserved to Felicia for the future, or perhaps Uncle Guy
would take her to task upon the point, and she certainly did not desire
that.

"I wonder why he likes her so much," she mused; "I know he does like
her by the sound of his voice when he speaks of 'our little ditch
flower,' as he always calls her. I don't suppose he ever shows his
temper to her."

There Doris was wrong, for Felicia had witnessed several exhibitions of
poor Uncle Guy's temper since the evening Lion had upset the table and
broken the Venetian vase; but she was learning to have patience with
him, and was, all unknowingly, gaining a greater influence over him on
that account.



CHAPTER XVI

Doris and Felicia

FOR several days Doris held to her determination to be nicer to
her cousin, and Felicia, who was not in the least of a resentful
disposition, met her half-way, so that things went more comfortably.
Miss Barton was pleased to note this, and hoped Doris had overcome her
jealous spirit; but, as a matter of fact, it was only slumbering, and
a few words of her mother's, casually spoken, and not intended for her
ears, proved quite sufficient to, awaken it once more.

"It is wonderful what a power that child is becoming at the Priory,"
Mrs. Pring had remarked to her husband. "Mrs. Price tells me that
father is growing very fond of her, and Guy's simply wrapped up in her.
And she's not been there quite three months!"

Doris was thinking of these words—which she had overheard—as she
strolled about the front garden of her home one afternoon, close on
tea-time. She was really trying to overcome the feeling of jealousy
which was struggling for predominance in her heart, and had nearly
succeeded in doing so, when, on reaching the laurel hedge which divided
the garden from the road, she heard voices—one of which she was certain
was her cousin's.

"Who can Felicia be talking to?" she thought. "She ought to be at the
Priory, for she left here nearly half-an-hour ago. Perhaps she's with
grandfather."

Her jealousy in arms again, she peeped between the laurels, quite
expecting to see Mr. Renford, and gave a little gasp of astonishment at
the sight which met her gaze—Felicia, with a bundle in her arms, and a
little dark-haired, dark-eyed gipsy maiden of about eight years of age,
coming along the road side by side, apparently deep in a confidential
conversation. As the couple passed by, Doris saw that the bundle
Felicia was carrying was a very young baby, wrapped in an old faded
shawl, and she also remarked that the little gipsy girl's face was
tear-stained, whilst she limped in her walk.

"Well," exclaimed Doris in amazement, "I wonder what this means! And
what would grandfather say if he saw Felicia at this moment? Where can
she be going? It cannot be that she intends going to the encampment? I
believe that is it. Oh, what a naughty, disobedient girl she is, when
grandfather forbade her to go there, and she knows he dislikes gipsies
How can she bear to touch that horrid baby! It's sure to be a dirty
little creature. I'll wait and see her when she goes back, and hear
what she has to say for herself; she'll be obliged to pass this way."

Feeling greatly excited and very curious, she went to the garden gate
leading into the road; but fully twenty minutes elapsed before her
cousin at length reappeared in sight. Felicia was alone and running,
but she came to a full stop as her eyes fell on the figure at the gate,
and she exclaimed—

"Oh, Doris, is that you? Where do you think I've been?"

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Doris responded severely. "I
saw you pass just now with a dirty, common, gipsy child, and you were
actually carrying a baby. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Why?" asked Felicia, looking taken aback. She was hot and flushed, and
spoke rather breathlessly. "I don't think the little girl was dirty,"
she added dubiously, "or the baby either."

"How came you to be with them?" demanded Doris in a tone of rebuke. She
considered her three years' seniority gave her the right to take the
other to task.

"Well, it was like this. I had nearly reached home when I caught up to
a little girl carrying a baby. I saw at once that they were gipsies,
so I took no notice of them because of what grandfather had said; but
suddenly I heard a scream, and then I stopped and glanced behind to see
what had happened, and oh, Doris, the poor little girl had fallen with
the baby and knocked herself! The baby wasn't hurt a bit, though it
cried dreadfully, and I went back and picked it up and tried to quiet
it—the dear little thing!—end presently it stopped crying; but the poor
little girl had knocked her knees and hurt one of her arms so badly—I
suppose she must have sprained it—that she couldn't possibly carry
the baby, and so, of course, I had to. What else could I have done? I
couldn't have left them there in the road. Grandfather wouldn't have
wished me to do that, would he? Why, that would have been acting like
the priest and the Levite in the parable! Oh, you surely don't think
grandfather will be angry with me for carrying the baby back to its
mother?" and Felicia regarded her cousin with anxious blue eyes.

"You took it to the encampment?" Doris inquired. She would not have
touched the baby herself, much less have taken it in her arms.

"Yes. The poor mother was so grateful to me. Surely grandfather will
not mind when I tell him?"

"I believe he will be furious with you," Doris declared emphatically;
"you have most deliberately disobeyed him. Molly told me that he
forbade you to go to the common whilst the gipsies remained there."

"He did, but—"

"He will accept no excuses for disobedience. Why, instead of taking
possession of the baby like that, did you not go to the Priory and send
one of the servants to the assistance of the little gipsy girl?"

"I never thought of that," Felicia replied truthfully; "I suppose that
is what I ought to have done," she added with a sigh, for the way in
which Doris had taken her story had rather alarmed her.

"Of course. Grandfather will say so. Oh, how angry he will be! Nothing
upsets him more than to have any order he gives set at defiance. How
very foolishly you have behaved, to be sure!"

Felicia was filled with dismay. No other course had presented itself to
her mind but to herself befriend the gipsy children; she had thought
she could easily explain the matter to Mr. Renford, but Doris had put
it in a different light.

"Do you—do you think grandfather will punish me for disobeying him?"
she asked hesitatingly, after a few minutes' uneasy reflection. "He has
never been angry with me yet—"

"He will be now," Doris interposed; "you may take my word for that."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Felicia; "what do you imagine he will do to me?"

"I don't know." Doris paused a moment, as though she was considering
the point, then she went on: "Soon after your arrival at the Priory,
grandfather was talking to mother about you, and I overheard him say,
'We will try the plan of educating her with her cousins, but if it does
not answer—if she proves troublesome or, disobedient, I shall send her
to a strict boarding-school.' Those were his exact words. How would you
like to go to boarding-school, Felicia?"

"Not at all. Oh, do you really think grandfather will send me to one
just for such a little thing as that? Oh, I don't want to leave the
Priory now; I've grown to like it; and there's Uncle Guy, and Uncle
Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary, and—and—oh, I do hope I shan't be sent away
from you all!" The tears rose to Felicia's eyes, and slowly trickled
down her cheeks. "I meant no harm," she added plaintively, "but I see
now I did wrong."

"Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?" suggested Doris,
her conscience beginning to prick her for teasing her cousin, who was
evidently in great distress. She knew well enough Mr. Renford had now
no intention of sending Felicia to boarding-school, though he had
contemplated the idea seriously at one time. "Did you meet anyone in
particular on your way to the common?"

"Only a few of the villagers."

"Well, I shan't tell grandfather or anyone—not even Molly—that you were
with the gipsies, so you can please yourself whether you mention the
matter or not."

"Oh, thank you! It is very good of you to say that, but I think perhaps
that it would be right—that I ought to tell grandfather—"

Doris did not wait to hear the completion of the sentence, but turned
impatiently away and retraced her footsteps to the house, whilst
Felicia walked on slowly towards the Priory in a very disturbed
state of mind. She had no idea that Doris had been deliberately
endeavouring to frighten her with the thought of her grandfather's
anger, and her spirits grew more and more depressed as she reflected
on the possibility of being sent to boarding-school. She felt so upset
that she took a turn around the lake to gain time and control of her
feelings before encountering her grandfather and Uncle Guy; and when,
at last, she entered the house, it was a positive relief to hear that
the former was not at home.

"Father's bothered about the gipsies," Uncle Guy informed her when
she sought him in his sitting-room, where, subsequently, they had tea
together; "they've been setting snares for rabbits in the woods, he
has found several himself to-day, and he's furious about it. I believe
father would rather give away a hundred rabbits than have one poached.
Woe betide the man caught in the preserves after this!"

"Do you think it is really the gipsies who are snaring the rabbits?"
Felicia asked in somewhat faltering accents.

"Little doubt of it. I only hope there will be no fuss between them and
the gamekeepers. Poachers are, as a rule, a desperate set. I wish these
gipsies would see fit to clear out of the district."

"I wish they had never come," Felicia said so fervently that her uncle
was surprised.

The little girl had resolved she would tell her grandfather she had
been to the encampment, and explain the circumstances which bad
taken her there; but, unfortunately, she did not see him that night,
and the next morning, when she met him at breakfast, he was so full
of his grievances against the gipsies that she could not summon up
sufficient courage to make her confession. So the opportunity for
telling him passed, and as the day wore on she began to ask herself
if she need tell him at all. Why should she risk his anger when she
had not intended to do any harm? Still, she had disobeyed him, and her
conscience told her she ought to inform him of the fact. She did not do
so, however, for the longer she procrastinated, the greater became her
dread of speaking out, and at the root of her cowardice was the fear
that he would send her away from the Priory. Her relations had become
very dear to her, especially Uncle Guy, and Molly—the only friend
near her own age she had ever possessed, whilst she had grown deeply
attached to Miss Barton, in whose favour she had been prejudiced from
the first.

"Have you told grandfather about the little gipsy girl you played the
good Samaritan to the other afternoon?" Doris asked Felicia a few days
later, with a faint note of sarcasm in her quiet voice.

"No; I took your advice—"

"My advice?" Doris quickly interrogated; "what do you mean? I gave you
no advice that I remember."

"You said, 'Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?'" Felicia
reminded her a trifle reproachfully.

"Well, that was merely asking you a question. I never advised you not
to—you know I did not."

"But—I thought—I thought—"

Felicia paused, her face twitching with emotion, a sensation of
indignation against her cousin in her heart. She saw now that Doris
would not be sorry if she got into trouble with her grandfather.

"Why are you so unkind to me, Doris?" she demanded at length in a
pained tone. "I have done you no harm, but yet you dislike me. We are
never alone without you say things to hurt me. Is it because Molly and
I are friends? Oh, surely you need not be jealous on that account!"

"And do you think I am jealous of you?" Doris asked, her usual reserve
of manner deserting her as she realised her cousin had discovered the
truth; "of you," she went on scornfully, "who have been accustomed to
live in a garret in a common lodging-house? They are right when they
call you a ditch flower—"

She stopped, cowed by the flash in her cousin's blue eyes, and turned
away with a short, embarrassed laugh, and a shamed expression crossing
her face; whilst Felicia with difficulty restrained the passionate
words which rushed to her lips, and wisely held her peace.



CHAPTER XVII

An Anxious Sunday

IT was a lovely Sunday afternoon in September, with a fresh, sweet
air stirring the yellowing leaves of the tall, elm trees which grew
near the lake in the Priory grounds, around which Felicia wandered
disconsolately, watching the ducks and swans disporting themselves in
the water. Her heart was very heavy, for Uncle Guy was ill, suffering
from one of the acute attacks of pain to which he was subject on
occasions; and her grandfather had spent all the day, so far, in his
son's room, which latter fact alarmed the little girl and made her
guess the truth, that the invalid was far worse than usual. The doctor
had been at the Priory during the morning, but he could do little to
ease the sufferings of his patient.

"The pain will just wear itself out," Mrs. Price had said to Felicia in
answer to her eager questions, "and by-and-by it will leave him weak
and helpless as a baby almost. Poor Mr. Guy!"

"It is very terrible for him," thought the little girl pityingly. "I
suppose he will be more or less ill all his life. Oh, dear, how sad
that is! He has been very kind to me—kinder almost than anyone; I wish
I could do something for him."

A rustling in the brushwood which bordered the lake on one side
interrupted her train of thought at this point, and as she glanced in
the direction from which the sound came, she saw a movement in the
under-growth of high ferns and brambles.

"Lion! Lion!" she called, thinking the mastiff was coming in search of
her; "is that you, old boy?"

It was not Lion, however, but another dog—a lean lurcher with a rabbit
in its mouth—which emerged from the brushwood, and without taking any
notice of Felicia, made off as fast as its long legs could carry it
in the direction of the high road. It was gone in an instant, leaving
Felicia amazed at the speed with which it had disappeared from sight.
She reflected that the dog most probably belonged to the gipsies, who
had doubtless trained it to do a little poaching on its own account,
and she felt glad her grandfather had not seen it.

But if Mr. Renford had not seen the trespasser on his property, someone
else had, for a few minutes later a tall man—clad in a much worn suit
of brown corduroy velvet and carrying a gun—came crashing through
the brushwood with a spaniel at his heels. The newcomer proved to be
Brown—Mr. Renford's head gamekeeper. When he saw Felicia, he came up to
her and spoke to her.

"Have you seen a strange dog about, miss?" he inquired.

"Yes," she replied; "a thin, long-legged dog, do you mean?"

"Yes, a lurcher—that's the one. Which way did it go, miss?"

Felicia pointed with her finger in the direction of the high road, and
explained that the dog had had a rabbit in its mouth, hearing which
Brown grew quite excited and red with indignation.

"I caught sight of it behind the elms," he said, "and followed it, but
it was too quick for me. I saw it was carrying something. If I'd been
within gun shot it should not have got away like that."

"Oh, surely you would not have shot it?" cried Felicia, horrified at
the thought. "Perhaps the poor thing was hungry," she suggested; "it
looked half-starved."

"Those sort of dogs always have a starved look with them; it's the
breed of them," Brown said carelessly. "Depend upon it, that lurcher
belongs to one of the gipsies who are encamped on the common; it must
be a bold poacher to venture as near the house as this. It'll be
wanting a duck next, I shouldn't wonder."

"Oh, I hope not! What would have happened, do you imagine, Brown, if
Lion had been here and encountered the lurcher?"

"There would have been a fight, most likely, and if so, Lion would
certainly have killed the other."

"Oh, then I am thankful he was not here!" the little girl exclaimed
shudderingly.

"I'm sorry to hear Mr. Guy is so ill to-day," remarked Brown with a
change of tone, his somewhat harsh voice softening; "I suppose the
master is with him, miss?"

Then, after Felicia had replied in the affirmative and explained that
her grandfather had not left her uncle's room that day, he continued:
"Ah, Mr. Renford was always a devoted father, though strict with
his children, and Mr. Guy's affliction has been a terrible trial to
him. You see, he wasn't born deformed; it came about by his nurse's
carelessness. That makes it all the more sad, to my mind." And touching
his hat respectfully, Brown moved away.

Felicia walked slowly back to the house, her mind now fully occupied
with thoughts of the gipsies. She had continued to keep her visit to
the common a secret from her grandfather, though on several occasions
she had longed to tell him about it, for it weighed heavily on her
conscience; but he had appeared so prejudiced against the gipsies, and
Doris had succeeded in making her so fearful, that her courage had
always failed her when it had come to the point of speaking out. Now,
as she entered the house, she met Mr. Renford in the hall, and followed
him into the dining-room to inquire for her uncle.

"He is resting, I am thankful to say," he told her, as he threw himself
into an easy-chair, looking very weary himself; "the pain ceased about
half-an-hour ago, and now he is trying to sleep."

"I am so glad he is better, grandfather," said Felicia earnestly, "for
your sake too. It must be dreadful to watch him suffer and not be able
to do anything for him—except pray for him."

"Ah! You have been doing that—eh?" He looked pleased and touched.
"Where have you been all the afternoon, child? I thought perhaps you
would have gone to the Vicarage with your cousins."

"No; Aunt Mary asked me to go there to tea and to church with them
afterwards. She invited me when she came to inquire for Uncle Guy after
morning service, but I didn't want to go, and she said I could do as I
pleased. I have been watching the ducks and the swans on the lake, and
the only person I've seen to speak to this afternoon was Brown."

She explained about the long-legged dog, whilst a frown of annoyance
gathered on her grandfather's brow.

"Brown said he would have shot it if he had been able to," she said
distressfully; "oh, you wouldn't like him to do that, would you? It was
such a poor, thin creature!"

"Brown does not like poachers whether they are men or dogs, so I do
not wonder that he appeared vexed; but I should not like him to shoot
the lurcher, for I saw just such an animal as you have described
playing with a couple of gipsy children on the common yesterday; it
was evidently a great pet. No, I should not like it to be shot, bold
poacher though it must be. I will tell Brown so."

"Oh, grandfather, that is kind of you!" Felicia cried, her face
brightening; "you have so many rabbits that you can well spare a few,
can't you?" she asked ingenuously.

"That is not the point," Mr. Renford replied, with an amused laugh.
"Are you going to side with the poachers against me?"

"No, indeed, grandfather."

She had been standing by the side of his chair as they had conversed,
and now he put his arm around her and drew her nearer. His manner
was so affectionate, and he looked so indulgent and kind that she
was on the brink of taking him into her confidence anent her visit
to the gipsy encampment, when Mrs. Price came to the door with the
intelligence that Mr. Guy felt sufficiently well to speak to Miss
Felicia and would like to see her.

The little girl, accordingly, went to her uncle at once, and though she
was much shocked at the sight of his countenance, which was drawn and
pallid from recent suffering, she hid her dismay, and restrained the
exclamation which rose to her lips, and bending over the bed pressed
her soft lips to his forehead.

"Well, little ditch flower," he said, with an effort to speak
playfully, but his voice sounded weak and exhausted.

"Oh, dear Uncle Guy, I am so glad you are better!" she murmured; "are
you really quite out of pain?"

"Yes, really. At this moment I feel as though I haven't a nerve in my
body. Sit down, Felicia—yes, on the edge of the bed where I can see
you. What book is that in your hand?"

"My Bible. I brought it because I thought you might want me to read to
you."

"Well, so I do—presently. Did you go to church this morning?"

"Yes, and sat in the Priory pew by myself. I thought of you all the
time, Uncle Guy, and I prayed for you that God would help you bear your
pain and, do you know, when Uncle Nathaniel was preaching, I believe
he was thinking of you, because his sermon was about the man with the
withered hand, whom Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, and—and isn't it
nice and comforting to know that people—those who love you—are thinking
and praying for you?"

"And do you mean to say there's a corner in your heart for such a
cross-grained individual as myself?" he inquired.

"Of course there is, Uncle Guy."

By-and-by he declared himself ready to listen to some reading, and
asked for the chapter of the Bible which told of the man with the
withered hand. He listened attentively, whilst she read the account of
the miracle as told in Saint Matthew's gospel, but he would let her
read no further.

"'And a great multitude followed Him, and He healed them all,'" he
repeated, quoting her last words. "That will do, thank you. I don't
want to hear any more."

She closed the book and waited to see if he intended resuming their
previous conversation, but apparently he did not. For a long while
there was silence, then the little girl spoke, asking some trifling
question, but she received no answer, and saw that he had fallen
asleep. She bent nearer to him to make certain such was the case, and
he moved uneasily, muttering to himself, but the only words Felicia
could make out were, "He healed them all." The tears rose to the little
girl's eyes as she listened. Oh, if only a miracle could be performed
for Uncle Guy! The cross he had to bear was a very heavy one, and
her tender heart reproached her because often she had thought he had
borne it less patiently than he might have done. She determined to be
more than ever gentle with him in the future; and as she gazed at his
pain-worn countenance and saw the ravages which ill-health had made,
she realised to the full the deep grief it would be to her now to be
parted from Uncle Guy.

"I believe he would miss me, too, if grandfather sent me away," she
thought, "for he really seems to like me to be with him, and he never
intends to be unkind, I know—he is not like Doris, who says cruel
things on purpose to hurt. Oh, I hope nothing will happen to make
grandfather send me to boarding-school now!"

When Mrs. Price peeped into the room a short while later, she was
gratified to find her young master sleeping peacefully, and Felicia
watching him, with an exceedingly thoughtful expression on her face,
and a redness about her eyes which told of recent tears. Why should the
child have been weeping, she wondered, when her uncle was undoubtedly
better? The good woman was perplexed.



CHAPTER XVIII

An Unexpected Holiday

WHEN Felicia arrived at the Vicarage on the following morning, her aunt
met her in the hall, and inquired for the latest news of the invalid.

"He is much better to-day," Felicia answered, with a ring of gladness
in her voice; "I saw him for a few minutes after breakfast, and he said
he had passed a most restful night without any pain, and he asked me to
tell you that if you can spare the time to sit an hour or so with him,
he will be delighted to have a chat with you."

"Oh, then he must be feeling much better!" Mrs. Pring exclaimed
joyfully. "What do you say to the prospect of a week's holiday?" she
continued, with a smile. "As a rule, Miss Barton goes home during
August and the first half of September, but this year, on account of
her mother's illness, she had to have her holiday earlier—it could not
have been much of a holiday for her, poor girl—so I have suggested that
she should take a week now, before the fine weather breaks up, and it
has been arranged for her to go home this afternoon. So you children
will have no lessons to-day, or for a week to come. Miss Barton is
preparing for her journey; but Doris and Molly are, I believe, in the
schoolroom. Run upstairs, my dear."

Felicia found her cousins in high spirits. They were engaged in packing
their lesson books away in a cupboard, to get them out of sight as well
as out of mind, as Molly explained. Both expressed pleasure on hearing
their uncle was so much better, and then fell to discussing how the
week's holiday was to be spent.

"I consider it is very hard lines we are not going to the sea-side this
year," Doris observed with a sigh of regret; "it was most unfortunate
that Miss Barton's mother should have been ill in June and upset our
plans. It would have been so much nicer to have had our six weeks'
holiday later on as usual. Father said something at breakfast about
mother taking us to Weston-super-Mare for a week, but she did not like
the thought of leaving home now Uncle Guy is ill. The doctor says he
has been worse than he has ever been before."

"He looks dreadfully bad," Felicia said, shaking her head sadly.

"Have you seen him?" Molly inquired in surprise.

"Yes, last night, and for a few minutes this morning. Your mother is
going to sit awhile with him by-and-by. He is quite out of pain now.
Oh, here comes Miss Barton!"

The governess entered the room, looking very bright and happy, and
immediately addressed herself to Felicia.

"I was wondering if you would like me to go to see your friend, Mrs.
M'Cosh, whilst I am in Bristol, my dear," she said kindly; "don't you
think she would like to hear how you are getting on?"

"Oh, I am sure she would!" Felicia cried. "How very good of you to
think of it, Miss Barton."

"Not at all. What shall I tell her about you?"

"That I am very happy at the Priory, and that grandfather is very, very
kind to me. And please say I shall never forget all she did for mother
and me, and that I think of her and dear Mr. M'Cosh every day of my
life."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, I should like you to tell her what a beautiful old house the
Priory is, and about Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary,
and—"

"Really, Felicia, there is no necessity that Mrs. M'Cosh should know
all about us," Doris interposed impatiently in a displeased tone.

Felicia looked snubbed, and grew very red, whilst Miss Barton turned a
reproachful glance upon her eldest pupil, who pretended not to notice
it, and Molly spoke out in her usual impetuous way—

"Tell Mrs. M'Cosh all about me, Miss Barton, do, and be sure you say
Felicia and I are the greatest friends."

"I will tell Mrs. M'Cosh everything in connection with Felicia that I
think will interest her," Miss Barton said quietly; "and I should not
have suggested calling on her, Doris, if I had not already mentioned
the matter to your mother and heard that she approved of my doing so."

"I did not know that," Doris murmured in some confusion.

"No, my dear, how should you?" There was a brief pause, after which
Miss Barton remarked in a lighter tone: "I hope you will all have a
pleasant time in my absence, and make the most of this unexpected
holiday, as I intend to do."

"We shall go to the station to see you off," declared Molly.

This the young folks accordingly did, accompanied by the Vicar, and
when Miss Barton had gone, they all went for a most enjoyable ramble
through the woods, now turning golden, and across stubbly fields from
which the corn had lately been carried. Felicia, unaccustomed to
walking in the country, was very tired when, at length, she parted from
her uncle and her cousins at the entrance to the Priory grounds; but
she had spent a most pleasant afternoon, and she hummed a little tune
as she passed up the carriage drive.

The first person she encountered in the house was Mrs. Price, who
informed her that Mr. Guy was stronger than he had been in the morning,
and the doctor was very satisfied with his condition. The little
girl had her tea in the housekeeper's room, and was going upstairs
afterwards, when the sound of the study door opening caused her to
pause. Glancing over the balusters she saw her grandfather crossing
the hall with Price, and Brown, the gamekeeper. Price opened the front
door, and Mr. Renford and Brown went out together.

"Is anything amiss, Price?" Felicia asked, her curiosity prompting her
to put the question.

"Why, yes, miss," was the answer; "the gipsies have been up to
mischief, and there's a fine to-do."

"What have they been doing?"

"Setting snares for rabbits, and allowing dogs in the preserves,
disturbing the game. Brown's put out because the master won't let him
shoot a lurcher he's seen continually; it seems it belongs to a gipsy
called Reuben Smallridge, who owns one of the caravans on the common,
and to-day it's commenced carrying off the ducks from the lake; one
was missing this morning, and Brown says he's certain the lurcher has
had it. I declare it's too bad. Mr. Renford's going to see the village
policeman, to tell him to keep an eye on the doings of this man,
Smallridge—he's a youngish man, with a wife and two children."

Felicia wondered if Reuben Smallridge was the father of the two
children she had befriended—it seemed very likely—but she questioned
Price no further. A short while later she went to visit her uncle, and
found him expecting her.

"So you are to have a week's holiday, Mary has been telling me," he
said, as she drew a chair to his bedside and sat down to talk to him.
"Where have you been all the afternoon? Out in the sunshine, that I can
see by your complexion."

"I have been for a long walk with Uncle Nathaniel, and Doris, and
Molly. Have you wanted me, Uncle Guy? I'll stay with you all day
to-morrow."

"I shall not permit that, though I have no doubt you would make an
excellent nurse, you are so quiet in your movements, and yet I believe
you are naturally a merry little soul."

"I believe I am," Felicia admitted with a soft laugh; "mother was, too,
when she was well. Oh, you don't know what fun we used to have together
sometimes; we were never dull. Mother used to say people ought to try
to make the best of things and be happy, because if they did not it was
as though they had no faith in God. When she was a girl she used to be
very dissatisfied and unhappy, often—"

"Yes? Go on. Tell me some more about your mother. Why was she
dissatisfied and unhappy?"

"Well, you see, mother never knew who she really was, and that used to
trouble her."

"Did you ever hear the history of your mother's early days, Felicia?"
he asked curiously.

"Oh, yes! It is such an interesting story. I never used to tire of
listening to it."

"I wish you would tell it to me some day, will you?"

"Yes, indeed I will—to-morrow, if you like, Uncle Guy."

"Thank you; I should much like to hear it. I fear I shall not be strong
enough to get up to-morrow. It is wearisome lying here on my back, and
I get tired of reading, so if you will spare me an hour of your society
during the afternoon, I shall be very glad. Your aunt will be here in
the morning, and father's sure to spend awhile with me after breakfast.
By the way, what sort of friends are you and Doris now?"

"Uncle Guy, how did you know—who told you—" Felicia stammered, flushing
and looking confused. "We are not friends at all," she admitted
dejectedly.

"I imagined not."

"I—I believe Doris rather despises me," the little girl said in a
faltering voice, "and—and it makes me so angry to know it is because
of—of mother. Doris doesn't say so, but I know, and she looks down
on me because we lived in an attic—I am not ashamed of that, I hope
I never shall be. Mother said I was to remember that if she was a
'nobody,' and not very wise—that is what she said—she tried to teach me
to be a good girl and did the best she could. And she said God doesn't
ask more than that. Oh, it hurts me to think anyone should—should—"

Felicia's voice faltered, and she could not finish her sentence.
Glancing at her uncle's countenance, she saw it bore the traces of
strong emotion. She knew she ought not to excite him, and for his sake
she strove to restrain her tears.

"I'm very silly," she continued, as soon as she could speak, "and
I know I ought not to be so angry with Doris, because she doesn't
understand how dearly I loved mother; but you understand, you always
have." And the look she gave him was full of confidence and affection.

"Because I loved my own mother dearly," he replied, much touched; "and
yet I was often cross and unkind to her, and I can never think of her
without a feeling of remorse. I might have let her see how dear she
was to me, but I never did; I might have listened to her when she
would have talked to me of—of things she loved to speak about but I
would not. And now it is too late. Often I used to bring the tears to
her eyes; but she was always patient with me, and never reproached
me—never! I did not realise all she had been to me till she was gone,
and now there is not anything I would not give to be able to look in
her face for a moment."

"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, Uncle Guy. It's—it's agony. But you
mustn't think of your mother with tears in her eyes, because, you know,
God has wiped them away, and she's perfectly happy where she's gone."

"You are a rare little comforter, Felicia," he told her, a tender smile
driving the look of sorrow and regret from his face.

"Am I?" she asked earnestly. "You would not like me to be sent away
from the Priory, Uncle Guy?"

"No, child, certainly not. But who would think of sending you away? Not
my father. We cannot part with our ditch flower now."



CHAPTER XIX

Felicia's Story

TRUE to her promise, the following afternoon Felicia repaired to her
uncle's rooms. On entering the sitting-room, however, she paused
undecidedly, for she heard her grandfather's voice in the bedroom
beyond.

"I am grieved to hear you speak thus," Mr. Renford was saying, "but, at
any rate, think it over, Guy, and let me have your decision by-and-by,
will you?"

"I tell you, father, I have made up my mind and there will be no
changing it," was the response, irritably spoken.

Felicia was turning to retrace her footsteps, fearful of intruding,
when the bedroom door opened and her grandfather came into the
sitting-room, looking much agitated.

"Don't run away, child," he said kindly; "your uncle is expecting you;
he tells me you are going to sit with him this afternoon."

"Yes, grandfather."

"That's right." He regarded her undecidedly for a moment, then added
in a lower tone: "I want him to see another doctor—a specialist I've
been bearing a great deal of lately—but he says he will not. Try if you
cannot persuade him to change his mind." And without another word he
went out of the room.

Felicia listened to his retreating footsteps in the corridor, then,
as the sound of them died away, she entered her uncle's bedroom, and
approached the bed.

She saw at a glance that the invalid was disturbed and in anything but
a good-humour. The lines of ill-temper on either side of his mouth
seemed more marked than usual, and there was a deep frown between his
brows. In answer to her solicitous inquiries as to his health, he
answered her somewhat testily—

"Better? Oh, yes. If I wasn't I should be dead by this time, I verily
believe. I couldn't have lived to bear that pain much longer. There,
child, don't look so grieved. I'm not suffering now, you know. Sit down
where I can see you. That's right. Father's been here, worrying me to
consent to see another doctor, but what's the good when—"

"It might be some good, Uncle Guy," Felicia broke in eagerly; "you
cannot tell it would not; and grandfather wishes it so much."

"No doctor can straighten my back, child," he reminded her with a ring
of bitterness in his voice.

"N—o—o," she answered reluctantly; "I suppose not. But, perhaps this
doctor, if he is very clever, could give you some medicine to make you
suffer less. If you could be spared pain, think what happiness that
would be to grandfather—to us all."

"I am certain no doctor can do anything for me, and so I have told my
father, and he quite understands I cannot be worried by a stranger. But
there is no necessity for you and I to go into the matter, Felicia. Let
us speak of something else. Have you been to the Vicarage to-day?"

"No; but Molly called me to join her in a walk this morning. We took
Lion with us and went into the woods. The nuts are ripening, and
there are such a quantity of blackberries. Do you know, I never saw
blackberries growing before this year? Molly could hardly believe it.
We met such a funny old man in the woods—Harry Budd, Molly called him;
she spoke to him. Do you know him, Uncle Guy?"

"Oh, yes! He was a notorious poacher in years gone by."

"Was he?" exclaimed Felicia. "I should never have guessed that by the
way he talked. Something was said about the gipsies, and he called
them 'a thieving set.' How could he do that when he has been a poacher
himself?"

"It is difficult to understand. He is a sly old fellow, I
believe—judging from what I have heard my father say of him. But you
were going to tell me about your mother, Felicia."

"Yes," she responded. She regarded him earnestly for a moment, then
glanced away. "Do you really want to hear about her, Uncle Guy?" she
questioned.

"Certainly. Did I not say so last night?"

"Yes. It—it would have been easier for me to have told you last night,"
she admitted.

"Why?"

"Because you were so gentle and kind then, and now you look so cross;
and—and I heard you speaking sharply to grandfather just now; I wish
you wouldn't, Uncle Guy, it makes him very sad."

"Poor father!" he sighed, the expression of his countenance softening.
"As I told you before, Felicia, I am a great disappointment to him. If
I really thought this specialist he wishes me to consult could do me
the least good I would certainly see him, but I know mine is a hopeless
case."

"Do see him, if only to please grandfather," pleaded Felicia in a
coaxing tone.

"But I so dislike strangers—"

He paused undecidedly. The little girl was wise enough not to press the
matter further; instead, she said—

"Do you want to hear about mother from the beginning—I mean from the
time she was a tiny baby?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Tell the tale as you like, child; you will
not fail to interest me."

"Well, the first place mother remembered was a large underground
kitchen in a London lodging-house, and the first person she remembered
was a little, old lady called Miss de Musset, who was always cooking
at a great stove. Mother used to call Miss de Musset 'aunt,' but she
was not related to her really, though she never knew that till she was
a big girl. Mother was a foundling; those she belonged to deserted her
and left her on the backdoor step of Miss de Musset's house, a little
baby of about three months old, wrapped up in an old faded shawl, and
Miss de Musset took her in and sent for the police, who wanted to carry
her off to the workhouse, because they said it was most improbable her
parents would be found, and they never were, you know."

"So Miss de Musset adopted your mother?"

"Yes. Years afterwards she told mother she had a feeling that God meant
her to do it, and I think very likely He did, don't you? Well," Felicia
continued, as her uncle made no response, "mother grew up with Miss de
Musset, who was wonderfully kind and did all she could for her. Miss
de Musset was a real lady, though she kept a lodging-house. Her father
had been a French teacher, but her grandfather had been a Huguenot
gentleman in France—"

"Ah!" exclaimed the invalid, a gleam of comprehension crossing his face
which had worn a slightly puzzled expression, "he was an émigré, no
doubt, who had been driven from his native country on account of his
religious and political opinions. I understand. Go on, Felicia."

"Miss de Musset had very few acquaintances, but there was an old
gentleman who used to come and see her called Monsieur Du Bellay; he
would bring a violin with him which he used to play in the kitchen
whilst she was preparing her lodgers' dinners. When mother was quite a
little girl he taught her the violin, and she used to practise in the
kitchen, and they all used to be very merry together."

"I can picture the scene."

"Always on Sundays, Miss de Musset would take mother to church," the
little girl proceeded, "and generally they attended a French Protestant
church, which I don't suppose you ever heard of, Uncle Guy. Miss de
Musset used to love the service there, because it was all in French,
and mother said the congregation was always very reverent. Most of
those who worshipped there were working people whose ancestors had
suffered for the sake of their religion in France, because they had
been Huguenots. Often Monsieur Du Bellay would go to the French
Protestant church, too, and then he would go home to supper with Miss
de Musset and mother. He earned his living by teaching music and
singing, and it was he who trained mother's voice."

"Miss de Musset had become an old woman by the time mother had grown
up, and mother was so glad to be able to earn money, because the
lodging-house did not pay so well as it had. Then Miss de Musset died,
and soon after that mother married father, who had been one of Miss de
Musset's lodgers, as you know, Uncle Guy. At first she was very happy,
but afterwards she thought she had done wrong in marrying, because
grandfather was so angry; he would not let father bring mother here
or have anything to do with her, and she was very unhappy, though she
loved father dearly—so dearly that when he died she thought her heart
would break. Then grandfather wanted to take me away from her—oh, I
know now he wouldn't have done it against her will!—and she determined
she would never give me up, but work for me, and—and she did. I have
often heard her say that if she was ever troubled or depressed, she
had only to think of a verse in the Twenty-seventh Psalm to be quite
comforted—'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will
take me up.' It had been so true in her case, you know. God had found
her a friend when she had been a poor little deserted baby, and she
always had faith that He would do everything for the best."

"What became of the old Frenchman—Monsieur Du Bellay?"

"He is dead now. Oh, I remember him so well! He was very tall, with
white hair, and such kind, dark eyes; he had rather a grave way of
talking, and sometimes he looked very sad. I liked him so much, he was
so kind. When he died he left mother all the money he had."

"It was not much, I conclude?"

"No, not quite twenty pounds after the expenses of his illness and
funeral had been paid. Mother felt his death dreadfully, and so did I.
I shall always remember the night he died. Mother took me to see him;
he was sitting in an easy-chair by the fire in his bedroom, and I knelt
down by his side, and he put both his hands on my head and said: 'The
Lord bless thee and keep thee, little one'—and an hour after we had
gone he died."

"You have had some sad partings in your life, Felicia," her uncle said
gently.

Felicia nodded. There were tears in her blue eyes, but the expression
of her face was not altogether a sorrowful one, for she was thinking of
the land that is very far off, and whilst her uncle's mind dwelt on the
sadness of earthly life, her faith had carried her beyond this world
into the presence of the King in His beauty; for hers was the sure and
certain hope of everlasting life.



CHAPTER XX

Felicia in Trouble

"CHILDREN, here comes your grandfather," said Mrs. Pring, a welcoming
smile lighting up her pleasant face, as, from her seat under a big
apple tree in the kitchen garden, where she and her little daughters
were passing the afternoon, she lifted her eyes from the tea-cups—set
on the small table at her side—into which she was pouring tea from a
pretty china teapot, and saw Mr. Renford's approaching figure.

"Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Molly. "He's just in time for a cup of
tea." She ran to meet her grandfather, and clinging affectionately to
his arm, led him under the shade of the apple tree, where she placed
him by her mother's side. "Why didn't you bring Felicia with you?" she
inquired.

"I had no intention of coming here when I left home; besides, Felicia
is spending the afternoon with Guy," he returned. "How very comfortable
this is!"

"Yes," agreed his daughter; "so we determined we would have tea
out-of-doors. We cannot expect this fine weather to continue much
longer, but I hope it will last whilst Miss Barton is away."

"Grandfather, do you know that Miss Barton is going to call on
Felicia's friend, Mrs. M'Cosh, whilst she is in Bristol?" asked Molly.

"No. Is that so?"

"Yes," assented Mrs. Pring. "It was Miss Barton's own idea, but I
furthered it. I—I hope you do not mind?" she questioned somewhat
falteringly, as she noticed the gravity of her father's face.

"No, I do not mind. I suppose it is only natural, under the
circumstances, that Felicia should be attached to the woman; but—well,
to put it plainly, has it ever occurred to you that Felicia has a
decided leaning towards the society of—of people of the lower classes?"

Mrs. Pring shook her head, looking exceedingly puzzled, whilst Doris
and Molly observed their grandfather with wondering eyes.

"I have reason to believe that such is the case, however," Mr. Renford
continued. Then, turning to Molly, he inquired, "Do you remember my
forbidding Felicia to go near the common on account of the gipsies
being there?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"She has disobeyed me, I find; not only has she been to the common, but
she has made friends with the gipsies—knowing them to be thieves, for
it has been no secret to her how they have robbed me of rabbits and
game."

"Oh, it can't be true!" Molly cried, whilst Doris kept silence and
listened to the conversation with a fast beating heart.

"There must be some mistake, father," Mrs. Pring was commencing, when
Mr. Renford interrupted her somewhat impatiently—

"My dear Mary, I know what I am talking about, and I do not think there
is any mistake. But I will explain and you will be able to judge for
yourself. I was crossing the common half-an-hour ago when a young gipsy
woman, with a baby in her arms, came out of a caravan and asked me
to buy a basket. I refused, and was walking on when she said, 'Sure,
gentleman, the pretty little lady, your grand-daughter, would like it,
and you shall have it cheap for her sake.' 'Why for her sake?' I asked,
rather amused at her wheedling tone. 'Because she's been friendly to
the poor gipsies,' was the answer I received, and then she went on to
speak of Felicia having carried the baby in her arms and talked so
kindly to her little daughter. 'What!' I exclaimed, 'do you mean to
tell me she has been here?' 'Yes, certainly,' the woman answered, and
I am sure she spoke in all sincerity. 'Did she not tell you, sir?' she
asked. 'No,' I replied. She looked quite distressed at that, and begged
me not to be angry, and she actually wanted to make me a present of
the basket she had offered to sell a few minutes previously. 'Take it
and give it to the sweet little lady,' she said, 'and never be angry
with her because she has a kind heart.' Of course, I would not have the
basket, but I gave the woman a shilling, and came on here to tell you
what she had said. What could have taken Felicia to the common except a
hankering for low society?"

"I don't believe it's true!" Molly cried hotly. "Felicia would not make
friends with people she knew to be dishonest; and I am certain she
would not disobey you like that, grandfather."

"Then you never saw her speak to the gipsies, Molly?" asked Mr. Renford.

"Never!"

Doris expected to be questioned next, but her grandfather, knowing she
was less friendly with Felicia than was her sister, did not do so, and
consequently she kept silence. It would have been easy to have set the
matter straight by explaining how her cousin had encountered the gipsy
children, and the cause of her subsequent visit to the common, but she
decided she would not. She saw no reason why she should interfere.
Felicia could explain for herself.

"Nevertheless, I am persuaded the gipsy woman spoke the truth," Mr.
Renford said decidedly; "I shall speak to Felicia on the subject as
soon as I get home. The thought that the child has wilfully disobeyed
me is an unpleasant one. I suppose I must make allowances for her,
however, for the circumstances of her life have been peculiar, but
she seemed so—so adaptable. It is hard to believe she would set me at
defiance like that."

"I don't believe she has!" Molly declared. "Ask her, grandfather, and
she will tell you."

"I have always considered her truthful," Mrs. Pring said uneasily; "of
course we have not known her a great while, but we have never detected
anything false or deceitful about her. Don't be certain there is not a
mistake, father."

"I will not, Mary," he assured her; "I suppose it would be too much to
expect that a ditch flower could altogether escape the mud," he added
with rather a sarcastic smile.

Mrs. Pring sighed. She felt greatly troubled and wished her husband was
there. But the Vicar had gone to visit a sick parishioner and did not
come home till long after his father-in-law had gone.

When Mr. Renford reached the Priory, an hour before his dinner-time,
he went immediately to his study, and sent for Felicia. Not dreaming
anything was amiss, the little girl, who had only left her uncle
a short while previously, came running downstairs and into her
grandfather's presence with a smiling face and a happy light in her
eyes. Without waiting to hear why he had summoned her, she began at
once—

"Oh, grandfather, such good news for you! I know you'll be glad! Uncle
Guy has consented to see the doctor you wish him to consult, and he
says you may send for him as soon as you like."

"Indeed I am glad to hear this," Mr. Renford replied, looking pleased
and surprised. "Is this your doing, Felicia?"

"I asked him to see the doctor for your sake, grandfather, and
by-and-by he consented to do so. Oh, how I wish something could be done
to make him better, though I am afraid he can never be quite well, can
he?"

Mr. Renford gravely scrutinised the pretty, anxious face which was
raised to his, and shook his head.

"I am afraid not," he answered. "Have you spent all the afternoon with
him, Felicia?"

"Yes, grandfather. I don't think I've tired him; he says I've done him
good."

"That's well." Mr. Renford laid his hands on her shoulders and looked
her straight in the eyes as he asked without any preamble: "Have you
had anything to do with the gipsies on the common?"

"I—I—" stammered the little girl, turning suddenly white, whilst a
scared expression settled on her face; "I—I ought to have told—"

"Answer me 'yes' or no,'" he said sternly; "don't try to prevaricate. I
repeat my question. Have you had anything to do with the gipsies on the
common?"

"Yes, grandfather, I—"

"Enough! You have disobeyed me." He pushed her from him angrily and
pointed to the door. "Go!" he commanded.

She moved away from him, her legs shaking, a choking sensation in her
throat.

"Wait a moment," he said as she reached the door. Then, as she paused,
he asked in a gentler tone: "Did you forget that I had told you not to
go near the common?"

"No, grandfather, I remembered; but—oh, do let me explain! I am not so
much to blame as you think. Oh, I ought to have told you, I know, but I
was afraid you—you—"

She stopped her broken confession, unable to proceed further, and burst
into tears, looking the picture of guilt and distress.

"I have been too indulgent to you," Mr. Renford said coldly, "and you
have presumed on my kindness to disobey me. You need a tighter rein, I
perceive, and you shall have it. I must—"

But Felicia waited to hear no more. Sobbing bitterly she left the study
and rushed across the hall, opened the front door, and fled into the
garden. Poor little girl, she had gone into her grandfather's presence
with such a happy heart, conscious that she was carrying him good news,
and now she was filled with misery and despair. He would send her away
from the Priory, of that she was certain. Oh, would she ever forget the
hard, cold expression of anger on his face? He would never trust her
again, but always regard her with suspicion. Oh, why had she not been
frank with him and told him all that had transpired between herself
and the gipsies? He might have blamed her then, but not so much as he
did now, for he would have understood the circumstances which had led
to her disobedience. His words so harshly spoken, "You have presumed
on my kindness to disobey me," kept sounding in her ears. Oh, what an
ungrateful girl she must be in his sight!

Felicia, forgetful that she wore no hat, when she reached the
gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, went straight on, and
never-slackened her pace till she found herself in the thick woods
where she and Molly had spent the morning. There, panting and
exhausted, she flung herself on the mossy ground at the foot of a
spreading beech tree, and tried to restrain her grief; but she sobbed
heart-brokenly long after her tears had ceased to flow. At length,
quite worn out, she lay still watching the golden leaves flutter from
the branches overhead. By-and-by her eyelids drooped, and just as the
rays of the September sun disappeared in the west, she fell into a deep
sleep, from which she was awakened an hour later by a heavy peal of
thunder and raindrops on her face.



CHAPTER XXI

The Storm

THUS rudely awakened, Felicia sprang to her feet in fright, not
realising where she was. It took her several minutes to recall what had
happened, and by that time a flash of lightning had momentarily lit up
her surroundings, and her first instinct was to get out of the woods as
soon as possible, for she had heard it was extremely dangerous to be
under trees during a thunderstorm. She stumbled along, scratching her
hands in brambles as she felt the way before her, whilst the lightning
flashed and the thunder roared like artillery overhead, and the heavy
rain soaked through the cotton frock she was wearing; and the farther
she went the more bewildered she became, until at length it dawned upon
her that, unaided, it was most improbable she would be able to find her
way out of the wood at all. Then a sense of despair seized her, and she
shouted loudly for help, but no one came to her assistance. Who would
be likely to be out in such a storm? At last, almost faint with fright,
she sank upon her knees on the already sodden ground, and covering her
face with her trembling hands, asked the protection of her Father in
Heaven. God was with her, she knew; but oh! it was enough to strike awe
to the bravest heart to be alone in such a spot during that terrific
storm.

"It is no good my trying to find my way home," Felicia thought; "but
perhaps grandfather will send to look for me—he must have heard me
leave the house. I will shout once more."

She did so, and again there was no response; nevertheless, her voice
had been heard. Though she was unaware of the fact, she was quite near
the high road, along which two men were passing—one, a tall, young
gipsy, the other, no other than old Harry Budd.

"I thought I heard someone shouting for help," observed the latter
during the silence which followed a heavy peal of thunder; "who could
it be? Shall we go and see?"

"Best be careful, Harry," advised the gipsy; "we don't want to fall
into a trap and be found in the preserves, and that Brown is a wily
one."

The old man grunted assentingly, but he seemed reluctant to proceed,
and stood still listening.

"It sounded to me like a child's voice," he said; "you don't think your
little maid has wandered into the woods and lost herself, do you?"

Poacher and vagabond though he was, the young man was an affectionate
father, and the thought that his little daughter might have missed her
way, and was terrified by the storm, roused him to go and ascertain
if such was really the case. Bidding his companion wait for him, he
disappeared over the hedge, into the wood beyond, and after a few
minutes cautious search, he came upon Felicia drenched to the skin,
the most forlorn-looking object possible. She had given up hoping any
one would find her whilst the storm lasted, and therefore great was
her relief of mind when the gipsy touched her on the shoulder as she
crouched against the trunk of a tree, and asked her in accents of
intense amazement what she did there alone.

"I've lost my way," she said tremulously; "oh, take me home! Take me
home!"

[Illustration: THE GIPSY TOUCHED HER ON THE SHOULDER AS SHE CROUCHED
AGAINST THE TRUNK OF A TREE.]

"Why, it's the little lady from the Priory!" he exclaimed. "Come with
me, miss; 'tis dangerous under the trees. Come."

Felicia grasped his strong, brown hand thankfully, and thus he led her
through the wood the way he had come, and lifted her over the hedge
into the road where old Harry Budd stood waiting.

"Am I far from the Priory?" asked Felicia anxiously.

"Right t'other side of the wood," said the gipsy, "you're nigh the
common."

"How did you come to be out at this hour, and in this weather, missie?"
questioned the old man curiously. "I recognise your voice; you're Mr.
Renford's little grand-daughter, who's living with him now."

"Yes. Oh, please show me the way home. Grandfather and Uncle Guy will
be wondering what has become of me, and—oh dear, my legs do shake so
dreadfully! I can hardly stand."

"Best take shelter with my wife and the little ones till the storm's
over," suggested the gipsy kindly.

"No, no!" cried Felicia in great distress, alarmed beyond measure at
the idea. "I must go home at once—at once! Oh, please, don't prevent
me!"

She felt a strong desire to run away, lest the gipsy should carry
her off to his caravan against her will; but her legs refused to
move. There was a singing in her ears, and utterly overcome with the
exhausting emotions she had endured during the past two hours, for the
first time in her life the little girl fainted, and fell forward on her
face in the road.

When Felicia came to herself again, she was in bed in her own room at
the Priory, and her aunt and Mrs. Price were with her; but the latter
moved away as soon as she opened her eyes.

"How did I come here?" asked Felicia in a weak-sounding voice, as Mrs.
Pring kissed her and told her she was better.

"Your grandfather fetched you, Felicia. Don't excite yourself. You
lost your way in the storm, and a gipsy found you and sheltered you in
his caravan, leaving you in the care of his wife whilst he came here
with the news of what had become of you. You had knocked your head
somehow—there is a bruise on your forehead—and were unconscious, so you
know nothing about the drive home in the carriage. Lie still now and
rest."

"Is grandfather very angry?" questioned Felicia.

"Not angry, but disappointed in you."

"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary,
let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"

"Very well—if it will make you happier."

"Oh, it will, it will!" And in faltering tones Felicia told how she had
befriended the gipsy children, refraining, however, from mentioning
that Doris knew anything about the matter.

Mrs. Pring's countenance brightened as she listened, and when Felicia
had finished her tale she kissed her affectionately.

"But why did you not tell my father at the time?" she very naturally
inquired; "that would have been the straightforward course to have
taken." Then, as the little girl made no response, she suggested
kindly: "I will tell him how it happened that you disobeyed him, shall
I?"

"Oh, Aunt Mary, will you?"

"Certainly, my dear. You should have been frank with him, and you would
not have found him unreasonable. It is not to be wondered at that he
was very angry when he thought you had determinedly laid yourself out
to disobey him. You were a very foolish little girl to run off to the
woods last evening, but I suppose you acted thoughtlessly. You gave us
all a very anxious time."

"Is it morning now?" Felicia asked.

"Yes—nearly daybreak,"

"And you have been up with me all night, Aunt Mary?"

"Yes, my dear; there has been no sleep for anyone in the house. But I
want you to rest now, and then I shall get a nap on the sofa myself.
Take this, and try to sleep."

Felicia drank the milk her aunt offered her, and five minutes later
she was in a deep sleep. The next day she was kept in bed, but in the
afternoon she was allowed to see her grandfather.

"Why did you mistrust me, child?" he asked reproachfully, after he had
inquired how she was, and had been satisfied with her answer that she
was quite well, and would be about again on the morrow. "What made
you think I should blame you for your impulsive kindness to those
gipsy children? I am glad to find there was a good cause for your
disobedience, but you should have told me, my dear."

"Yes, I know I ought," she faltered; "but I was so afraid that—that you
would send me away from the Priory. I did not want to go away to be
parted from Uncle Guy, and—and—" she paused in confusion.

"I admit I did once think of sending you to boarding-school—though I do
not know who can have told you so—but certainly not of late. Guy would
miss you, and I, too, should find the Priory lonely now without our
ditch flower."

"Oh, how I love to hear you say that!" Felicia exclaimed happily; "I
don't believe, grandfather, I shall ever be afraid to tell you anything
again."

The following day Felicia arose at her usual time, and directly after
breakfast paid a visit to her uncle. He received her with a warmth of
affection which surprised and touched her.

"It was dreadful to lie here helpless thinking of you out in the
thunder and lightning and rain," he said with a slight shudder; "I
suppose you did not notice the storm coming because you were under the
trees. What? You were asleep I Oh, you babe in the wood But seriously,
Felicia, you must promise to be more careful of yourself in future, or
I shall never have a moment's peace of mind when I do not know where
you are. I suppose you were terribly alarmed?"

"Indeed I was," she admitted, "though I tried not to be. I shouted
and shouted and no one came, and at last I knelt down and prayed, and
remembered that God was everywhere, and that no harm could come to
me against His will. I kept repeating, 'Thy will be done—Thy will be
done—' mother used to call that the perfect prayer, because it's asking
God for what's best for us when we don't know what's best ourselves.
The storm confused me so that I couldn't think properly, and I was
quite dazed by the time the gipsy found me, and then I was horrified
when he spoke of taking me to his caravan. I thought grandfather would
imagine I had gone there of my own accord. Everything seemed going
against me."

"You might have confided in us about your visit to the common, Felicia;
I have heard all about it from father. You should have trusted us; I
cannot think why you did not. But there, don't look so distressed. Why,
I declare your eyes are full of tears."

Felicia made no response, and by-and-by he continued—

"The gipsies left the common at daybreak this morning, and the district
will be well quit of them, for of course they do steal the game, though
in other ways I don't believe they are as bad as they are represented,
and certainly no worse than old Harry Budd, who, in spite of calling
them 'a thieving set,' appears to have been hand-and-glove with them
all along. By the way, if you had had Lion with you the night before
last he would have brought you home in safety, but they tell me he had
been chained up all the afternoon so that he should not follow father
into the preserves—he disturbs the game—and no one thought of releasing
him. Poor old Lion, he lost an opportunity of distinguishing himself.
However, all's well that ends well, and our ditch flower is safe—thank
God."

The last two words were spoken almost in a whisper, but the little girl
heard them with a sensation of mingled happiness and surprise, for she
realised that from her uncle's lips they were no mere idle phrase. She
felt certain that he really did thank God.



CHAPTER XXII

Conclusion

WHEN Miss Barton returned to her duties at the end of her week's
holiday, the first piece of news she learnt from Doris and Molly, who
met her at the station, was that Uncle Guy was going to London for a
course of treatment recommended by the specialist who had been to the
Priory to see him, and that there was a strong hope that he might be
cured of the attacks of severe pain which had kept him an invalid all
his life.

"He is not very hopeful about it himself," Molly said, "and at first he
said nothing would induce him to go to London, but when he saw how much
everyone, and grandfather especially, wished it, he consented, and so
he's going very soon. Oh, Miss Barton, won't it be wonderful if he can
really be made better? Grandfather doesn't say much about it, but one
can see he is quite excited, and Felicia—oh, you haven't heard about
her yet! She gave us such a fright the night of the thunderstorm!" And
the little girl explained at some length all that had occurred. "Wasn't
it silly to be afraid grandfather would send her to boarding-school?"
she said in conclusion.

"I think someone must have put the idea into her head," was the
thoughtful response, at which Doris started guiltily.

"Did you see Mrs. M'Cosh?" asked Molly.

"Yes; and I am the bearer of I don't know how many messages from her to
Felicia, all of which I must deliver to-morrow."

The following morning Felicia listened to the account of the interview
which had taken place between her governess and Mrs. M'Cosh. The latter
had given Miss Barton a warm reception, and had actually shed tears of
joy at hearing how well cared for Felicia was.

"Master and I would have liked to have kept her," she had told her
visitor, "and now I don't suppose we shall ever see the dear child
again; but, please, tell her never a day passes but we speak of her,
and we remember her in our prayers, and always shall."

Felicia's blue eyes were misty as Miss Barton repeated this, but there
was a smile on her lips, for it was sweet to receive an assurance of
her good friends' lasting affection.

It was difficult to settle to lessons again after the week's holiday,
and the governess and her pupils were not sorry when the morning's
work was over. Felicia had avoided Doris since the night of the storm,
believing it had been her elder cousin who had informed Mr. Renford
of her visit to the gipsies' encampment, and feeling naturally very
indignant against her; but as she was leaving the schoolroom to follow
Molly into the garden for a stroll in the fresh air before dinner,
Doris called her back, saying—

"Wait a minute, Felicia; I want to speak to you."

"Yes?" Felicia said interrogatively.

Miss Barton had gone to her own room, and Molly was already
out-of-doors. Doris looked paler than usual, but her manner was quite
composed, whilst Felicia appeared embarrassed.

"I want to set you right on one point," Doris said quietly; "I did not
tell grandfather you had had anything to do with the gipsies."

"Oh, Doris, I thought you did!" Felicia cried, distressed beyond
measure to think she should have misjudged her cousin; "of course I
know you said you wouldn't, and I ought to have known you wouldn't
break your word, but—oh, do forgive me for distrusting you and
believing you had!"

"I have nothing to forgive. I—I have behaved very badly, for I heard
grandfather speaking of your having been to the common, and I never
told him why you went; he would not have been angry if he had known the
true facts."

"You could not tell that."

"Yes; I—I misled you. I knew grandfather would never send you to
boarding-school; he is much too fond of you. I frightened you about
it intentionally; and—and I allowed him to believe you had purposely
disobeyed him when I might have set the matter straight for you."

"It was very unkind of you," Felicia said with deep reproach in her
tone; "I wouldn't have behaved like that to you."

"No, I know you would not have," Doris admitted. It had cost her a
great effort to make her confession, though she had spoken so calmly,
and now the tears which had been gathering in her eyes overflowed and
ran down her cheeks. "The night of the storm when no one knew where
you were, I felt dreadful about it," she proceeded less steadily;
"grandfather came to see if you were here, and he said he had been
harsh with you on account of your having disobeyed him, and I was
afraid to tell him then why you had done so; he would have asked me why
I had not told him before, and—and I was afraid."

The sight of the other's emotion was too much for Felicia. She flung
her arms around her cousin's neck and kissed her.

"Forget all about it," she said generously; "I will try to, too. I know
you have never liked me—"

"It has been all my wicked, jealous temper," Doris broke in; "you don't
know what it is to have a temper like mine, it spoils everything for
me."

"But you shouldn't let it, Doris."

"Do you forgive me, Felicia?"

"Of course. We will try to be better friends in future. Come out into
the garden now, or Molly will be returning in search of us."

So there was peace between the cousins, and Doris really did try to
curb her jealousy of Felicia, and though she did not succeed all at
once, it grew less and less as time went on. She ceased making little
spiteful speeches in reference to Felicia's former life, and in many
ways endeavoured to make up to her cousin for the petty annoyances she
had caused her to endure in the past.

During the first week of October Mr. Guy went to London to the
nursing-home, where it had been arranged he should stay for the next
two months. His father accompanied him, and left him in charge of the
celebrated doctor who had undertaken his case. For several weeks after
his return to the Priory, Mr. Renford lived in dread lest he would hear
his son had determined to come home; but as the days passed by and no
such tidings reached him, his spirits began to rise, and one morning
brought a letter which informed him the invalid really considered the
treatment he was receiving was doing him good. Great was the rejoicing
both at the Priory and the Vicarage on that day; and when further
letters came with continued cheerful reports, Mr. Renford's delight
was boundless, and he now dared look forward to his son's returning in
better health.

December brought Mr. Guy back to the Priory. He had desired no fuss
should be made of his homecoming, and accordingly none was made.
Felicia, on her return from the Vicarage one afternoon, was informed
of her uncle's arrival, and that he desired to see her in his own
sitting-room. Thither she hastened at once, and found him resting in
an easy-chair by the blazing fire, with his father standing on the
hearth-rug, and Lion lying contentedly at his feet. Felicia flew across
the room to his side, and flinging her arms around his neck, kissed him
again and again—nearly smothering him, as he afterwards declared—then
she drew back and gazed at him, exclaiming—

"Oh, grandfather, he does look better, doesn't he?"

"Much better," Mr. Renford agreed, his face beaming with pleasure; "and
you feel it, don't you, Guy?"

"I do; and the doctor says the improvement in my health is likely to be
permanent. I have had no pain for weeks."

"I am so glad of that," Felicia said fervently; "for that is the
greatest blessing, isn't it?"

"Yes; I never thought to be rid of the giant, Pain; but God has been
very merciful to me."

"Oh, Guy, I wish your mother had lived to hear you say that!" Mr.
Renford exclaimed involuntarily.

His son made no answer, but a look of deep regret settled on his face.

It was Felicia who, by-and-by, broke the silence by asking: "Were you
comfortable at the nursing-home, Uncle Guy?"

"Very. Everyone was kind and considerate to me, and the other
patients—ah! Felicia, many of them were greater sufferers than I have
ever been!"

The Vicar and his wife spent an hour at the Priory during the evening;
and the next day Doris and Molly came to visit their uncle. Everyone
was surprised to see how greatly Mr. Guy had altered in appearance for
the better; and not only did he look stronger and healthier, but as
Molly remarked in confidence to her, sister, he appeared so much better
tempered, too, and was so genuinely glad to see them all again.

Soon after her uncle's return to the Priory, Felicia had an unexpected
treat. Her grandfather, who had business to transact in Bristol, took
her with him, and allowed her to spend the afternoon with Mrs. M'Cosh.
The good woman had just finished cleaning up the kitchen after the
mid-day meal, when there came a knock at the door, and on opening it,
Felicia, literally sobbing with excitement and joy, sprang into her
arms.

"Why, my dear, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh, her broad, red face
deepening in hue. "How did you get here? I hope nothing is amiss."

"No, no. Grandfather brought me, and he's coming for me this evening,"
Felicia explained. "Oh, how glad I am to see you! How is Mr. M'Cosh?"

"Very well; and proud and pleased he'll be to come home and find you
here, my dear child. Let me look at you. Why, how you've grown, and
you've such a pretty colour, and you look quite the lady, that you
do. My, what a world this is with its ups and downs! To think of your
living in a grand house, with servants to wait on you, and plenty of
everything!"

"It seemed very strange at first," Felicia said seriously.

"It must have. And you've not forgotten us! Well!"

"I shall never forget you, dear Mrs. M'Cosh—never!"

They had a long chat, during which Felicia told her companion every
detail of her life at the Priory which she thought would interest her,
and was listened to with the greatest attention. Tea-time arrived
before they were aware, bringing Mr. M'Cosh, who was no less surprised
than had been his wife at the sight of the visitor, and quite as
pleased. Then the trio had tea together, and soon afterwards Mr.
Renford arrived to fetch his grand-daughter, and Felicia took a smiling
good-bye of her friends, the good couple being cheered by the assurance
that, all being well, she would come to see them again. As the little
girl walked to the railway station by her grandfather's side, she was
very quiet, and Mr. Renford rightly guessed her thoughts were busy with
the past.

"Do you remember your first evening at the Priory, and how you begged
to be allowed to return to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh?" he asked abruptly at
length.

"Yes," Felicia answered gravely; "but I—I felt so lonely, and I did not
understand you then, grandfather, and I did not know there was such a
person as Uncle Guy." She paused, thinking how her world had widened
of late, and of the many new interests which had come into her life.
"I should have liked to have seen the old attic," she added; "but it
wouldn't have seemed like home without mother, so perhaps it's just as
well I did not."

The journey by train—which was a fast one—was soon over, and they
were met by a carriage at N— station, which in less than ten minutes
conveyed them home, where Mr. Guy was eagerly waiting their arrival,
curious to learn how Felicia had fared during the day. After supper,
which the travellers had found in readiness for them, Felicia had a
little chat with her uncle before going to bed.

"It seemed so natural to be in Bristol again," she informed him; "and I
almost felt once as though, if I left Mrs. M'Cosh's kitchen and walked
upstairs, I should bear the 'whirr-whirr' of mother's sewing machine,
and find her sitting at the table at work, and it comforted me to
remember she would never be tired or overworked again. And where she's
gone, I expect she knows why God let her be so dreadfully poor, and—oh
heaps of things which are so difficult to understand! Mother always
trusted in God even when things were very, very hard."

"Ah! that's when comes the trial to faith, Felicia—when life is dark
and gloomy, and one is tempted to think that a good and loving God
would have spared us sorrow and pain."

The little girl's face was very grave for a moment, then it brightened,
and slowly and softly she quoted—

  "God never would send you the darkness
     If He knew you could bear the light;
   But you would not cling to His guiding hand
     If the way were always bright;
   And you would not learn to walk by faith,
     Could you always walk by sight."

There was a brief silence, during which Felicia watched her uncle with
an expression of anxiety on her countenance. By-and-by he said—

"You make me ashamed of myself, Felicia; but you have taught me one
lesson—that God is mindful of His own; and that He does guide and
strengthen those who trust in Him."

He did not continue the conversation further; but Felicia's eyes
had been opened to the change which was taking place in her uncle's
views of this life and of things eternal. Truly, he was much altered,
spiritually as well as physically. Better in health, he was far more
cheerful, and no longer gave way to the violent temper which had
been the terror of the household so long, and grew kinder and more
considerate to his relations and friends. He now bore the affliction
of his deformity with resignation, and thought of others instead
of simply studying his own pleasure as he had once done. Everyone
recognised whose influence it was that had brought about this happy
change—everyone, that is, but Felicia herself, who was utterly
unconscious that she had come as a God sent blessing to the lonely,
melancholy invalid, to widen his sympathies and teach him that, not the
circumstances of life, but a wayward faithless heart is the one barrier
between man and God.

The little girl herself accepted the sweets of life now offered to
her with a thankful, grateful heart; and we will leave her to grow
from childhood into womanhood, in that "large room" where God has set
her feet, rich in the affection of the households at the Vicarage and
the Priory, and especially devoted to her grandfather and Uncle Guy,
who still speak of her as their "little ditch flower"—the endearing
name she loves to be called, which even Doris would not use by way of
disparagement now.



THE END.



LORIMER AND CHALMERS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.





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