Friendless Felicia, by Eleanora H. Stooke

"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."

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."

"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.

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."

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."

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."

"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."

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 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."

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—

"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."

"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.

"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—

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—"

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.

"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."

"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?"

"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."

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!"

"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!"

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.

"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?"

"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."

"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.

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—

"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.

"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.

"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."

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

"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.

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.

"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, thank you," Felicia responded; "I will call again. Will Mr. Renford be at home soon?"

"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?"

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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."

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."

"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?"

"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?"

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."

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.

"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!"

"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.'"

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

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."

"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.

"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.

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."

"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?"

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?"

"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."

"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."

"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—

"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—"

"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."

"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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

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

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

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?"

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

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."

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?"

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."

"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."

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

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."

"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."

"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.

"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!"

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

"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?"

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.

"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.

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."

"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.'"

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.

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

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—

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."

"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."

"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."

"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, 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.

"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:—

"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.

"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?"

"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?"

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?"

"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."

"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.

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."

"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."

"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—

"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 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—"

"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?"

"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.

"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."

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.

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?"

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?"

"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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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."

"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."

"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—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."

"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?"

"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.

"Yes. It—it would have been easier for me to have told you last night," she admitted.

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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.

"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?"

"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."

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?"

"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?"

"Enough! You have disobeyed me." He pushed her from him angrily and pointed to the door. "Go!" he commanded.

"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.

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.

"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."

"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary, let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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—

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."

"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."

"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—

"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.

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!"

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—

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.

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"MY CHILD, WHY ARE YOU HIDING THERE?"

Friendless Felicia

OR

A Little City Sparrow

BY

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Author of

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WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

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CONTENTS