"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darkness
If He knew you could bear the light;
But you would not cling to His guiding hand
If the way were always bright;
And you would not learn to walk by faith,
Could you always walk by sight."
She would try to walk by faith, but she dreaded the thought of facing those who had, as she knew, despised and disapproved of her mother; and deep down in her heart was still the hope that her grandparents would close their doors against her, in which case she would gladly return to the friends God had raised up for her in her time of need. Mr. M'Cosh was only a workingman, and his wife was only a working-woman, but there was nothing "common" about them as Felicia understood the word, and she was sure she would be quite content to live with them.
Suddenly Mrs. M'Cosh's rubicund countenance appeared round the door, and her deep voice interrupted Felicia's reverie—
"You've been here long enough, child," she said, "better come downstairs."
"I'm coming," Felicia answered readily, and though her face was swollen and her eyes red with weeping, her tone was less listless than it had been during the last few days.
"I came to look for you because I feared you were grieving," Mrs. M'Cosh explained solicitously; "it's natural you should, but depend upon it, you needn't grieve for her."
"No, it's for myself—that's selfish, I suppose. It seems to me I never can be quite my old self again. Nothing is the same now she is gone."
"I think when one loses someone one cares for very much, one never can be quite as one was before," Mrs. M'Cosh said musingly; "it gives one a solemn kind of feeling to know there's someone who loves one dearly waiting for one in Heaven, doesn't it?"
Felicia agreed; and after another lingering glance around the room, she followed Mrs. M'Cosh downstairs. Thus she said good-bye, for ever, to her attic home.
MRS. M'COSH and Felicia stood on the down platform at Bristol railway station, waiting for the arrival of the train by which the latter was to travel to N—. A very pretty, interesting little girl Felicia appeared in her neat black dress and hat, looking younger than her twelve years by reason of her small, slight figure. She held her companion's hand—encased in baggy cotton gloves—very tight, and gazed up into her broad, red face with sorrowful, blue eyes, as the minutes slipped all too quickly away, bringing the time at which the train was due to arrive at Bristol very near now.
"You have the pocket-book safe?" said Mrs. M'Cosh interrogatively.
"Yes, here," Felicia answered, touching the bosom of her frock.
"That's right, my dear; all you have to do is to put it into your grandfather's hands. Then if he says you 're to stay, you'll send me a line and I'll forward your box at once."
"And if he says he won't have anything to do with me I shall come right back again," declared Felicia; "Mr. M'Cosh has given me enough money to buy my ticket home. Perhaps you'll see me again this evening."
She was trying to speak calmly; but her lips quivered and her eyes were dim. Mrs. M'Cosh smiled at her encouragingly, and bade her keep a good heart.
"Master suggested my taking you to the Priory myself, Felicia," she said, "but I thought that wouldn't do. Your relations are gentlefolks, you see, and they mightn't understand how I had come to be your friend."
"I shall tell them," Felicia interposed quickly, with a flash of her blue eyes and a grateful pressure of her little fingers on the big hand she clasped so affectionately; "I shall tell them that you and Mr. M'Cosh are my best and dearest friends, and I shall explain all you have done for mother and me. Oh, I wish you were coming too!"
Mrs. M'Cosh rather wished it herself. She was very anxious as well as not a little curious to know the reception Felicia would get when she presented herself at the Priory. At that moment, however, the train arrived, and clasping the little girl in her arms she kissed her tenderly.
"Good-bye, child, and God bless you," she said, her deep voice unusually soft in tone. Then she added hurriedly: "Be a good girl, and obey your grandparents if so be they decide to give you a home, and I suppose they won't be able to refuse to provide for you, anyway. Master and I would dearly like to adopt you, but your father was a gentleman, it appears, and you belong to a different class of folks to what we do, and so—and so—you understand it would never do."
They found a compartment with a corner seat empty, which Felicia took. There was no opportunity for further conversation of a private nature; and a few minutes later the train steamed out of the station. Felicia put her head out of the window and tried to smile, but it was a very sorry attempt, for she was deeply grieved at heart.
Mrs. M'Cosh stood on the platform waving her handkerchief till she had watched the train out of sight, then she turned her footsteps homewards, very low-spirited indeed. She much doubted if she would ever see Felicia again.
"I wonder why God should have let us become attached to the child if He meant to let her pass right out of our lives," she mused; "perhaps He just wanted to make use of us for the time. Well, we won't grumble at that, for maybe the little we've been able to do He'll count as done unto Him. Poor little Felicia! I hope her grand relations will treat her well and make her happy."
Meanwhile the train was carrying Felicia beyond the smoke and the grime of the city into a purer, sweeter atmosphere, and soon it was rushing between pleasant meadowlands, where haymaking was going on. Through the open window of the carriage came delicious scents of flowers, and when the train—a slow one—stopped at the small stations on the line, Felicia was charmed by their well-kept gardens.
How beautiful everything was on that perfect summer day! The little girl's spirits began to rise, and a thrill of happiness stole into her heart, only to give place, a moment later, to a pang of sorrow at the thought that there was no dear mother with her now to enjoy the beauty on which she was feasting her eyes.
"But if it is so lovely here, how much lovelier must it be in Heaven," reflected Felicia, and the thought brought comfort with it.
At last the train slowed into the station at N—, and Felicia alighted on to the platform. She found she was the only passenger who left the train, which waited but a couple of minutes.
"Any luggage?" questioned the porter in the doorway, to whom Felicia tendered her ticket.
"No," she replied, colouring, as she noticed the curiosity of his glance. "Can you tell me the way to the Priory?" she inquired.
"To the Priory?" His eyes travelled over her black dress, then rested on her face again. "Yes, certainly. Keep to your right through the village, go past the church and the Vicarage, and in about five minutes' walk from there you'll come to the Priory gate."
"Thank you," she responded politely.
"A friend of one of the servants, are you?" he asked, following her out of the station.
"No—oh no!"
"Not a friend of the family?" he questioned dubiously.
"Not a friend—exactly," she answered. He was very inquisitive, she thought, but she could see he did not intend to be rude. "Keep to the right, you said? Good morning—and thank you."
Felicia started towards the village at a quick rate, but she slackened her footsteps and looked around her attentively when she reached the first cottages. The village street was long and straggling, and almost deserted on this hot, summer afternoon, for most of the adult inhabitants were haymaking and the children were at school. Felicia passed the schoolhouse by-and-by—it stood on the opposite side of the road to the church—from whence came the monotonous singsong noise of some fifty young voices repeating a lesson. Close to the church, which was a picturesque old edifice, was the Vicarage—a modern red-brick house, with bow windows. The Vicarage garden joined the churchyard wall, in which there was a door of communication. Felicia was naturally an observant child, and little escaped the notice of her sharp eyes as she followed the porter's directions and kept straight on. Her heart began to palpitate unevenly when she, at length, reached the big iron gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, and as she passed up the wide carriage drive leading to the house she began to tremble with nervousness, and when she stood before the front door, it was several minutes before she could pluck up sufficient courage to ring the bell; and the instant she did nerve herself to do so, she felt inclined to take to her heels and run away.
In answer to her ring, the door was opened by a tall, old man, with snowy hair and a pair of bright, brown eyes. He spoke to Felicia in a tone of indulgent surprise.
"Well, little maiden, what brings you here ringing at the front door—eh?"
Felicia regarded him timidly. Her limbs were trembling, and she was very flustered, for she had jumped to the conclusion that this benevolent-looking old man must be her grandfather.
"Oh, please," she gasped, "are you—are you Mr. Renford?"
"No, my dear," he replied with a chuckle of amusement. "But who, pray, are you? I don't seem to know your face—you're not one of the village children?"
"No. I—I've come from Bristol. I—I particularly want to see Mr. Renford."
"He's not in; he's out with the haymakers. Better tell me your business."
"No, thank you," Felicia responded; "I will call again. Will Mr. Renford be at home soon?"
"He'll be home in good time for dinner."
"In good time for dinner? Why, it must be nearly four o'clock!" cried Felicia, whose acquaintances had always dined in the middle of the day.
"It's past four," said the old man, smiling. "Seven's the dinner hour at the Priory. Now, come, my dear, what do you want of the master? Can't I do as well? What's your name—eh?"
But Felicia merely shook her head; and repeating that she would call again, she turned hastily away, and retraced her footsteps down the carriage drive into the high road.
By that time she was hot and panting, and sought about for some sheltered spot where she could sit down and rest. There was no shade in the high road, so she climbed a five-barred gate into a meadow, where the grass, which was starred with moon daisies, was not laid up for mowing. The meadow sloped towards a deep ditch, overgrown with hazel bushes, and into this ditch Felicia crept amongst the tall meadow-sweet and yellow irises. It was cool and shady there, a damp place in the winter, no doubt, but the drought of the last few weeks had dried it up, and the little girl sat down to rest, thinking what a charming spot she had discovered. She was very tired, worn out by excitement, in fact, and it was very comfortable in the ditch. The air was full of the pungent scent of meadow-sweet, and the drowsy hum of insects fell soothingly upon her ears. Her eyelids were heavy, so she closed them, and laid her head back upon the cool, green grass, and thus fell into a little doze from which she passed into a deep, firm sleep.
An hour went by—two hours—and still the child slept undisturbed; but at length a huge dog—a mastiff—leaped the gate from the road into the meadow, and, nose to the ground, made straight for the ditch. The next minute Felicia was awakened by a movement at her side, and opening her eyes, she was terribly shocked to see an enormous, yellowish-drab animal, with cruel-looking open jaws, from which lolled a great red tongue, standing over her. She dared not speak or move, fearing the creature would pounce upon her, for he looked so fierce, and the gaze of his light brown eyes was so appalling.
Thus the child and the dog regarded each other silently, immovably, for some minutes; then the latter began to slowly wag his tail, and bending his head he gently licked first the little girl's hands, next her cheek. Relieved to find him inclined to be friendly, she ventured to stroke his neck; whereupon he exhibited great delight, and lifting up his head, gave utterance to a deep bark. A moment later a man's voice responded, shouting: "Lion! Lion! where are you, old boy?"
Lion wagged his tail, looked expectant, and barked again.
"What have you found? Nothing of importance, I expect, but I suppose I must come and see," grumbled the voice. "Where are you? Oh, there in the ditch, hidden by the meadow-sweet and the rest of the ditch flowers. Why—well, I never!" The speaker paused in astonishment. He had reached the spot where Felicia lay, and clutching the dog by the collar, he pulled him sharply back as he bent his gaze on the little girl, a humorous smile curving his lips. "This is a rare sort of ditch flower," he remarked, "as evidently Lion thought when he found you. My child, why are you hiding there?"
FELICIA was still trembling, though she no longer experienced any fears of the big dog, and her eyes looked startled as she raised them to meet the gaze of a pair as clear and blue as her own. Lion's master was a gentleman past middle age, but his tall figure, clad in a tweed knickerbocker suit, was erect and vigorous, and his brown hair was but sparsely sprinkled with gray. His face, the features of which were decidedly handsome, was clean-shaven; and child though she was, Felicia noticed that it was rather a hard face, though at present it was softened by a smile.
"I came here to rest," she explained as she scrambled out of the ditch; "I was asleep when your dog found me."
"I hope he did not frighten you?"
"He did, a little, at first; but then he licked my hands and face, and I knew he would not do that if he meant to hurt me."
"No, indeed! Lion must have taken a fancy to you; he does not, as a rule, make friends quickly." The gentleman looked at her attentively. "Do you live in the village?" he inquired.
"Oh no!" she replied.
"Ah, I thought not! The village children grow roses on their cheeks, and you have none. It takes sunshine and fresh air to grow roses." He released his hold of Lion's collar and smiled as the dog immediately went to the little girl to be noticed.
She patted his great head, not in the least afraid of him now, whilst he submitted to be made much of with great contentment.
"What a nice dog he is!" she exclaimed.
"You are accustomed to animals?"
"No, but I love them. We—mother and I—always lived in lodgings, and so, of course, I could not keep pets, and the last two years whilst we have been in Bristol—" She broke off and grew red, for she had been about to explain that they had had enough to do to feed themselves, but suddenly remembered there was no necessity to tell that to a stranger.
"And are you and your mother living in Bristol now?" he inquired after a brief pause.
"My mother died a week ago," Felicia responded in a low tone; "oh, it seems a great deal longer than that! And now—and now I have no home."
"No home? But you have friends?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried, her face brightening, "the best in the world!"
"Where are they? What are you doing at N—?"
Felicia hesitated and regarded him dubiously. He had a masterful way of asking questions as though he had a right to put them.
"My friends live at Bristol," she answered with a touch of reserve in her tone; "and I have come to N— on business about—about myself."
"On business about yourself!" he exclaimed, laughing, evidently amused at her reply; "and you mean to keep it to yourself, I perceive. Well, you're quite right. Come, Lion, we must be moving on, old boy."
"Oh, please, will you tell me the time?" demanded Felicia eagerly. "Is it seven o'clock yet?"
"Not quite, It is—let me see—" he looked at his watch—"it is half-past six exactly."
"Thank you. How long I must have slept! Two hours at least. Good evening!" and she hurried across the meadow in the direction of the gate.
The gentleman followed the small, black-gowned figure, wondering who the child could be, whilst, much to his surprise, he observed that the dog kept close to her side, though he glanced back at his master now and then to see if he was following.
Felicia climbed over the gate, the dog leaping it after her; then she walked at a more sedate pace, for she did not wish to arrive at the Priory in a breathless condition. At the entrance to the Priory grounds she glanced back and saw the gentleman not far behind, and before she had gone half the distance of the carriage drive he had overtaken her.
"Where are you going?" he demanded in a peremptory tone. "Do you know where this leads?"
"Yes, to the Priory," she responded. "I am going to see Mr. Renford. I called more than two hours ago, but he was not in then, so I'm going to find out if he's come home. Oh, I do hope he has!"
"What is your business with him?" he inquired, laying a detaining hand on her shoulder; "come, child, speak out and tell me."
"I cannot," replied Felicia, almost in tears, for she was alarmed to see the lines around his mouth had hardened, and the expression of his face had become stern; "I cannot tell my business to any one but Mr. Renford," she declared firmly.
"Well, here he is. I am he—Julius Renford, the master of the Priory. Why, what's the matter with you? You're shaking like an aspen leaf."
Felicia did not answer. A look of utter amazement had crept over her countenance, for her grandfather was so different from the mental picture she had formed of him. She had fancied he would be older—as old as the white-haired man with the bright, brown eyes who had interviewed her at the Priory—and this alert, vigorous gentleman upset all her preconceived ideas. She did not for a moment doubt he spoke the truth, however, for his countenance was honest and open as the day.
"Come, come," he said impatiently, "what do you want of me? First of all, tell me your name."
"It is Felicia—Felicia Renford," she informed him in faltering accents.
"What!" His clasp on her shoulder tightened, and his fine colour paled slightly, whilst he subjected her face to a keen scrutiny which Felicia bore with what fortitude she could muster for the occasion. "Do you mean to say you are the daughter of my son John?"
"Yes," she replied chokingly.
"And your mother is dead, I think you told me?" Again she assented.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, and Felicia's sensitive ears heard the ejaculation was one of relief. "Where are your proofs?" he asked, "and who sent you here?"
"My mother. She—"
"You said she was dead!" he interposed sternly.
"Yes. But before she died—"
"Come to the house," he interrupted again, "I cannot talk to you here."
He retained his hold of her—almost as though he was afraid she might run away—until they reached the front door, which was opened by the old man Felicia had seen before. Mr. Renford addressed a few words to him.
"Order the dinner to be kept back for half-an-hour, Price," he commanded "and see I'm not interrupted. Follow me," he added to Felicia.
She did so, her mind in a whirl of bewilderment. Evidently the old man whom she had thought might be her grandfather was a servant, she reflected.
Mr. Renford led the way into a room on the right of the large entrance hall. It was a pleasant room facing the west, the windows of which opened upon a well-kept flower-garden, and it was comfortably furnished the little girl saw at a glance. A Turkey carpet covered the floor, and the dark walls, panelled in oak, made a suitable background for the heavy gilt frames of the pictures of dogs and horses which ornamented them. Over the high mantel-shelf hung several guns; and altogether it was plain to see that it was the room of a sportsman and not a student, though it was always called the "study."
Mr. Renford placed Felicia in a chair near the open window, and he was about to seat himself opposite to her, when there came an imperative scrape at the door. With an impatient exclamation he crossed the room and admitted Lion, who stalked up to the little girl and laid his great head in her lap. Mr. Renford closed the door; then he turned towards the child and the dog. By that time Felicia had produced the pocket-book which held all the papers her mother had treasured carefully, and she now handed it to him. He took it without a word, and seating himself at his writing-table, with his back towards her, examined its contents.
Though very excited, Felicia waited quietly. There was a tall, old-fashioned clock in the room, and she fastened her eyes on its brass face and watched the minute hand go round. More than fifteen minutes elapsed before Mr. Renford directed his attention to her again.
"So you are my son John's daughter," he said slowly, "and you are now an orphan, it appears. In spite of all your mother's fine boasts of what she could do for you, and her talk of independence, it seems she has not done much—except bring you to want."
"She did the best she could," Felicia answered in a low tone; but there was a glitter in her blue eyes as she spoke which her grandfather did not fail to note; "it was not her fault she had that dreadful illness."
"Illness? What illness was that? Tell me about it."
She did so, explaining how it had been the cause of their great poverty. She spoke of their attic home in Bristol, and the struggling existence of the last two years which had ended with her mother's death. If she had seen the faintest expression of sympathy for her mother in his face, she would have wept aloud, but she saw none, and that helped her to keep her composure.
"And now I suppose you expect to live at the Priory?" he asked when she had finished her tale.
"Mother thought you would want me to live here," she frankly admitted, "but I hope you won't—I have friends who will give me a home. I didn't want to come to the Priory at all, but I had promised mother, and of course I could not break my word. Oh, do please say I may go back to Bristol to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh!"
"Who are they? Not the people you have been staying with—that mason and his wife? Yes. So you would rather live with them—eh? Well, I may as well tell you at once that will not be permitted. I shall go to Bristol to-morrow and prove all your statements—not that I doubt them, I believe you have spoken the truth—and I shall pay a visit to this Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh and settle matters with them; they must not be losers on account of anything they have done—but of course they must have known they would be repaid. Meanwhile, I will lock these papers away in my safe; and, for the present, you will remain at the Priory. Obey me, and you will have nothing to fear; disobey me, and—"
He paused expressively. She had listened with attention and a sinking heart, her arms clasped round the dog's neck. Suddenly, with a little, choking sob she turned away her face from his gaze.
"You are tired and hungry, no doubt," he proceeded hastily, "you must have some refreshment at once."
He rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it to send Mrs. Price to him. Three minutes later, a stout, elderly woman, wearing a black gown and a white cap, entered the room. Mr. Renford smiled as he noticed the curious, expectant glance she cast at Felicia.
"Look at them," he said pointing at the child and the dog. "Lion found her asleep in the ditch at the bottom of Greenside meadow, and they are friends already. I augur well from that, for dogs seldom make mistakes. Observe her features, Mrs. Price, and tell me if you ever knew anyone like her."
The little girl lifted her eyes wistfully to the woman's face and saw a gleam of surprise and eagerness flit across it.
"I am not sure," Mrs. Price faltered, "but I think so, sir. She is very like poor Master John."
"She is his daughter; I see the likeness myself. Take her away, Mrs. Price; I entrust her to your care for the present. Consider her your guest until—until I give you further instructions."
"No, no, let me go!" Felicia implored. "Oh, let me return to Bristol to those who care for me! You do not, and I don't think you ever will. You were nicer before you knew I was your grandchild. You don't want me, and Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh do. They love me, and they were kind to my dear, dear mother. Oh, mother, mother!" And she broke into a fit of bitter weeping.
"Come away," whispered Mrs. Price, pitying the forlorn child, and taking her gently by the hand she led her from the room, followed closely by the dog. "Don't cry, my dear, you'll find someone to love you at N—, never fear! You may take my word for that," she added as soon as she had shut the study door.
"Do you mean my grandmother?" asked Felicia, hope springing anew in her heart.
"Your grandmother? Why, my dear, she died more than three years ago. To think now that you didn't know that!"
"DORIS! Such news! You'll never guess what it is!" And the speaker, Molly Pring, caught her sister by the two shoulders and, in her excitement, treated her to a hearty shake, which caused her to drop the book she was reading and look at the disturber of her peace with reproachful eyes.
"I declare, Molly, you're too bad! What do you want? I'm reading such an exciting story—"
"It can't be half so exciting as the story I have to tell," interrupted Molly, "for mine is true, and quite as interesting as a made-up one."
"Well, let me hear it," said Doris with an air of resignation as she picked up the fallen book and carefully examined it to make certain it was uninjured.
Doris and Molly Pring were the children of the Reverend Nathaniel Pring, the Vicar of N—, and their mother was the only daughter of Mr. Renford, the master of the Priory. Doris, who was nearly fifteen, was a quiet, reserved sort of girl, wrapped up in herself, and not a very congenial companion for her sister, who was two years her junior, and, truth to tell, a great tomboy. They were both nice-looking children, though neither could be termed pretty, and they were endowed with perfect health, a fact to which their clear complexions and rosy cheeks bore witness; but Molly was the more popular of the two, being cheerful and light-hearted, and always ready to do anyone a good turn. It came natural to Molly Pring to speak pleasantly, for she was a kind-hearted little soul, and her words but echoed the sentiments of one of the truest hearts that ever beat. There was not a man, woman, or child in the parish who did not love Miss Molly, and even old Harry Budd, who had been sentenced to several terms of imprisonment for poaching, had his word of praise for the Vicar's younger daughter, and declared she knew nearly as much about the habits of animals and birds as he did himself.
It was nearly nine o'clock, on the evening of the day that Felicia had arrived at N—, and the sisters were together in the schoolroom at the Vicarage. Doris had been reading by the light of the lamp which she had lit and placed on the table which occupied the middle of the room, and Molly had just come upstairs after having been present at an interview between her grandfather and her parents.
"Well, tell me your news," Doris said a trifle impatiently, as her sister, having whetted her curiosity, appeared in no hurry to satisfy it; "I hope something really exciting has happened, for I am sure our lives are dull enough, as a rule. Is it anything to do with Miss Barton?"
Miss Barton was their governess, who had gone to her home in Bristol a fortnight previously, on account of the illness of her mother. The invalid was now reported much better, and the governess was expected to return to her pupils soon.
"No," Molly replied; "nothing whatever. Grandfather has been here—and, oh, Doris, who do you think is at the Priory? You'll never guess if I give you a dozen chances, so I may as well tell you. Our cousin!"
"Our cousin!" echoed Doris wonderingly. "What cousin?"
"Why, we have but one. Have you forgotten? Surely not. Don't you remember mother told us that when her brother John died, he left a wife and a child—a little baby girl? And it's that little girl who's at the Priory. Fancy! she came from Bristol by herself, and she is only twelve years old. Mother would not allow you or I to travel alone, although we are older, but her mother is dead—she only died about a week ago. Oh, isn't that sad? And her name is Felicia. Did you ever know a prettier name? Father says it means 'happiness.'"
"What made her come to the Priory?" asked Doris, now thoroughly interested.
"I suppose there was nowhere else for her to go, her mother being dead. Grandfather said she told him such a miserable tale about herself and her mother, that they had been terribly poor and had been obliged to support themselves by doing needlework; and to-morrow he's going to Bristol to find out if it's true; he thinks it is. Oh, Doris, doesn't it seem dreadful that our own cousin should have been in want when we have always had such a good home and plenty of everything? Grandfather said she has the appearance of having been half-starved, and he looked so red and queer when he said it, and mother cried, and father—oh, there was such a grave, sad expression on his face!"
"I remember mother told me grandfather wanted to have Uncle John's little girl to live at the Priory years ago," Doris remarked reflectively.
"Yes, but her mother wouldn't give her up—of course she wouldn't. Do you think our mother could bear to part with one of us?"
"No. But Uncle John's wife was quite a common person, I've heard, so that's different."
"How?" asked Molly, opening her grey eyes wide with astonishment. "If she wasn't a lady, I expect she loved her little girl quite as much as though she was. Father wouldn't like to hear you speak like that; you know he doesn't like to hear anyone called 'common.' Oh, I'm longing to meet Felicia, to see what she's like. But grandfather said he would rather we did not come to the Priory till he sends for us—not even mother. He wishes to make certain Felicia has told him the exact truth before he introduces her to us."
"Does he mean her to live at the Priory?" Doris inquired.
"I think he does. He did not say so, but he spoke as though she was to remain there. Oh, by the way, Lion found her asleep in the deep ditch at the bottom of Greenside meadow, and he's taken such a fancy to her. Grandfather seemed pleased at that."
"What was she doing in the ditch?"
"Simply resting in the shade under the hazel bushes. She had been to the Priory and had not found grandfather at home and had crept into the ditch, because it was cool and quiet there. Grandfather said she was lying amongst the meadow-sweet and irises; he called her 'a pale, little ditch flower, unaccustomed to sunshine.'"
"Then I don't suppose she's very pretty," observed Doris meditatively. "Well, I don't envy her if she is going to live at the Priory, for I expect grandfather will be very strict with her, and then—there's Uncle Guy! I wonder how he will like having her there?"
"Grandfather said he had not told Uncle Guy about her yet, but he will, to-morrow, before he goes to Bristol. Uncle Guy has been in one of his worst moods to-day, and has not left his own rooms."
At that moment the schoolroom door opened, and the children's mother came in. She was a tall, fair, handsome woman, and the expression of her face was frank and attractive.
"Supper is ready, my dears," she remarked, "and your father is waiting."
"Has grandfather gone?" Molly inquired.
"Yes. I wanted him to stay, but he would not. He said he had just dined but I doubt if he had eaten much. I could see he was very excited."
The little girls followed their mother downstairs into the dining-room, where their father was standing by the open window looking out into the moonlit garden. He immediately joined his wife and children at the supper table; and as soon as the parlour-maid had left the room, the conversation naturally turned to the newcomer at the Priory.
"I thought father was not unfavourably impressed with her," said Mrs. Pring, glancing anxiously at her husband.
"I thought the same," he agreed. "It is a pity he never had an interview with the child's mother," he proceeded, "things might have been so different if they had met face to face. I could never blame her for keeping her baby girl."
"Nor I. In fact, I always had a better opinion of her on that account," admitted Mrs. Pring. "I could not think father right in wanting her to give up the child; but, of course, his idea was that little Felicia would be better away from her mother's influence. I believe he meant to do right though he appeared harsh, he never dreamt the mother would prove so stubborn."
"He had probably formed a totally erroneous estimation of her character," remarked Mr. Pring.
"It was a terrible blow to him when John married her," said his wife, sighing; "indeed, it was a trouble to us all. I hope Felicia will be a nice little girl, but brought up as I fear she must have been—"
"My dear, we don't know how she has been brought up," Mr. Pring broke in, a slight tone of reproof in his tone.
"But, father," said Doris gravely, "she can't have been brought up very well, can she? I heard Uncle Guy say once that Uncle John had picked his wife out of the gutter."
"Your Uncle Guy never saw his brother's wife, Doris," her father reminded her; "and—poor fellow!—he seldom reflects before he speaks, or he would not have uttered such a speech as that."
"Then isn't it true, father?"
"It is true that your Uncle John's wife was a foundling, he told me so himself. She was the adopted daughter of the landlady of the house where he lodged when he was a law student in London."
"And Uncle John's wife was a music teacher, wasn't she?" questioned Molly eagerly.
"She was. Your grandfather was prejudiced against her because nothing was ever known of her parentage, and the person who brought her up was only a lodging-house keeper. You see, my dears, he has lived at N— most of his life; if he had rubbed against people like those I used to meet daily when I was a curate in the East End of London, he would know that there are good, noble women whose self-sacrificing lives shine all the brighter in contrast to their uncongenial surroundings. There are saints of the gutter, Doris, living in slums amidst poverty and sin; I have known many such amongst the women-workers who have crossed my path, many of whom have failed of worldly success but who are certainly not failures in the sight of their Father in Heaven. Remember it is not always the purest atmosphere and the brightest sunshine which rears the fairest flowers. The finest forget-me-nots in N— grow on the bank of that dirty, stagnant pool outside the village, and I noticed as I passed yesterday that the water-lilies there are far more beautiful than those in the lake in the Priory grounds; they have blossomed in mud and slime, and God has made them spotless and perfect. And so it is with some souls, reared in dark surroundings of poverty and maybe sin, they grow in grace and beauty, and we, in our ignorance, wonder how that can be. 'It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.'"
"Oh, father, I do like your little sermons!" Molly exclaimed with a smile. "I wish grandfather could have heard this one."
"He has heard it before, I expect," Mrs. Pring said sighing. Then her face brightened, and the glance she gave her husband was full of understanding and affection. He was more than ten years her senior, but they were a very united pair. "We are not to go to the Priory to-morrow," she proceeded after a brief pause, "for father does not wish us to make Felicia's acquaintance till he returns from Bristol. He evidently means the child to live with him; I do not know how that will answer, I am sure. As I said before, I hope she is a nice little girl; if so, you two will like her for a friend," and she regarded her daughters with a slightly wistful look.
"Oh, yes!" they both agreed, and Molly added: "We must be as kind to her as ever we can be, because she must be very sad and lonely now her mother is dead."
"That's right, Molly," her father said heartily; "and you must make allowances for her if her ways are not quite your ways. Remember her path in life has not been so smooth as yours. My little girls have been reared in the sunshine, and hitherto this little maiden has walked in the shade."
FELICIA never forgot the first night she spent at the Priory. After supper, which had been served to her in the housekeeper's room, Mrs. Price escorted her upstairs to a large bedroom, in the centre of which stood a big four-post bed with heavy hangings. To the little girl's excited imagination this bed looked like a hearse, and when she had undressed and climbed into it—it was very high—and Mrs. Price had taken her departure, she lay awake for hours, a prey to nervous terrors such as had never troubled her before, so that it was nearly daybreak and the birds were beginning to twitter before she, at last, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was late in the morning when she awoke to find a bright-faced maid standing by her side, breakfast-tray in hand.
"Oh, have I overslept myself?" asked Felicia, springing up in bed and gazing round the big, strange room with a startled look.
"It's past eleven o'clock, miss, but Mrs. Price would not have you disturbed," responded the girl with a smile; "she said you were very tired last night, and a long sleep would do you a lot of good. See, here is your breakfast. Do you like coffee? Yes. That's right. And here's some delicious bacon, and buttered toast. Now, do try to eat all you can."
Felicia did try, and made an excellent breakfast, whilst the servant talked to her.
"I'm Ann White," the girl explained, "and I've been under housemaid at the Priory for more than a year. This is my first place, and I hope to remain here. Mrs. Price—she's the housekeeper, you know—is my aunt, and she's mistress here, now Mrs. Renford is gone. Why, she and her husband have served in the Renford family for more than forty years."
"Is her husband the old man I saw at the door?" Felicia inquired.
"Yes, he's the butler, and it isn't his place to open the door—one of us maids is supposed to do that—but he often does. He's a very kind old man."
"I thought he looked kind."
"He looks just what he is. The master thinks very highly of him, and so does Mr. Guy."
"Who is Mr. Guy?" asked Felicia.
"Dear me," cried Ann, "to think you don't know! Why, he's your uncle, to be sure."
"I did not know I had an uncle," Felicia confessed with some embarrassment; "does he live here?"
"Oh, yes! But often he keeps to his own rooms, for he's a great invalid. Poor Mr. Guy! He's not much over thirty, and I suppose he never knows what it is to feel really well. He's clever, they say, but he's very peculiar—very; it's his temper makes him so, I suppose, and he's terribly afflicted, so there's some excuse for him. I think I'd better tell you, miss, that he's a hunchback."
"A hunchback!" Felicia echoed in accents of deepest pity. "Oh, how very, very sad!"
"Isn't it? He was his mother's favourite child, they say; she was devoted to him, and since her death he has grown more and more morose and ill-tempered. Your grandmother was a very sweet lady, miss."
"I wish she was living now," sighed Felicia.
"Ah, yes! Everyone misses her, and Mr. Guy most of all, I expect. You see, Mrs. Pring has her husband and children and all the parish to look after, so to speak, and master has interests out-of-doors, but it's different with Mr. Guy."
"Who is Mrs. Pring?" asked Felicia.
"Your aunt who married the Vicar," Ann replied, looking more and more surprised as she discovered the extent of the little girl's ignorance about her relations; "she has two daughters not much older than yourself. Why, you're richer in relations than you thought."
"I am, indeed. Do tell me more about them."
Ann good-naturedly complied, and Felicia listened to all she had to say, which was in praise of the family at the Vicarage, with great attention. How she hoped she would be friends with her cousins!
When she had finished her breakfast and Ann had taken away the tray, she arose and dressed. The housemaid had informed her that the master of the house had gone to Bristol and would not be at home till the evening. She wondered how she would be expected to pass the day. After having said her prayers she sat down and read a chapter from the Bible which she found on a table by the bedside, and then stood looking dreamily out of the window, from which, beyond the flower-garden stretching before the house, she caught the glimmer of water between a group of trees, and was immediately reminded of that glimpse of the river from the window of the attic she still thought of as home. What wonder that the tears overflowed and streamed down her thin, pale cheeks, and that her breast heaved with sobs. She had only to shut her eyes and she could picture her mother's dark head bent over the sewing machine; and in imagination she could still hear the "whirr-whirr-whirr" which had so terribly tried her mother's nerves. But a touch on her arm interrupted her reverie, and she looked up with a start into the face of Mrs. Price.
"How do you feel this morning?" asked Mrs. Price kindly, observing the little girl's sorrowful countenance with much concern.
"I am very well, thank you," Felicia responded hastily. "I—I have been thinking of my mother, that is why I have been crying. I—I miss her so."
"Naturally, my dear. But, come, dry your eyes, for your Uncle Guy wants to see you. He is a sad invalid, and we always try to humour his wishes. You know he is—deformed."
"Yes; Ann told me."
"His nurse let him fall when he was an infant, and the result is that he is a hunchback. He is greatly to be pitied. Will you come now?"
Felicia assented, and followed Mrs. Price out of the room and down a long corridor, at the end of which hung a heavy crimson cloth curtain before a closed door. As the two approached the door, it opened, and Price came out, pushing aside the curtain which he held back to allow Felicia to pass.
"Good morning, miss," said the old man with his kindly smile.
"Good morning," Felicia responded.
"Mr. Guy is ready to see you," he proceeded, and he forthwith ushered her into the room, announcing, "Miss Felicia, if you please, Mr. Guy."
For a minute Felicia was too nervous and confused to go forward. She stood just within the threshold of the room, her eyes fixed on the thick velvet pile carpet beneath her feet; then she glanced up quickly, and met the intent gaze of her uncle. He lay on a sofa close to the open window, and the sunshine fell fully upon his face—a very handsome face it was, with dark grey eyes and regular features, but it wore the most unhappy and discontented expression possible.
"Come here," he said imperatively.
She obeyed, embarrassed by the keen scrutiny he was subjecting her to. He took her hand in his, and for a few minutes uncle and niece regarded each other in dead silence.
"My father gave me a faithful description of you," he remarked at length; "you are a pale little blossom—an airy, fairy thing. Do you know that I am your uncle? Yes. You are to call me 'Uncle Guy,' you understand. I have two other nieces—Doris and Molly Pring—whose acquaintance you will make by-and-by. But, now, tell me about yourself."
"About myself?" she said questioningly, surprised at this demand.
"Yes. Tell me all you told my father last night. I want to hear the story from your lips—the story of your life. Sit down."
She took a chair by his side, and complied with his request, whilst he turned his eyes away from her face and listened. She lingered over her account of those better days when her mother had earned sufficient money to supply their wants, and touched as lightly as possible on the time subsequent to her attack of typhoid fever; and, as she talked, she observed him closely, and noticed that his face bore traces of suffering, and that there were dark rims beneath his eyes.
"And your friends—this Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh—paid for your mother's funeral," he said when she had concluded her tale, "and those are the people who would like to adopt you?"
She assented.
He laughed; something in the idea seemed to amuse him. Then he grew suddenly serious, and looked at her with grave attention as he observed slowly—
"You have seen a great deal of the seamy side of life, but there are easier times in store for you, I've little doubt. You'll have to forget the past now."
"I don't want to forget it, I hope I never shall," Felicia responded with a touch of indignation in her tone. "I want to remember it always—always. We were not unhappy, mother and I, we had each other, and now—and now—" She paused and caught her breath with a sob. "You don't understand," she added confusedly.
"I think I do. I, too, know what it means to lose a mother. It is just possible, is it not, that my mother may have been as much to me as yours was to you?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" she answered, touched by the gentleness of his tone.
"That ought to be a link of sympathy between us, at any rate. Now, I'm going to give you a word of advice. Don't talk of your mother to your grandfather; but you may talk of her to me, when we are alone. She was evidently an unusual woman, and I like people who are not ordinary. It must have been somewhat of an ordeal for you to come here yesterday alone?"
"Oh, it was! I longed to go back to Bristol without seeing my grandfather; but I could not do that because of my promise to mother."
"The Priory ought to be your home. Do you know that though you are only twelve years old, and I am over thirty, you have seen more of life than I have or ever shall?" There was a touch of repine in his tone, and his expression of discontent deepened. "My life has been spent mostly in this sitting-room and the bedroom beyond, so you will not wonder—" He broke off, paused a minute, then added: "You have interested me greatly."
"Have I?" she cried, really surprised, but pleased to hear him say so.
"Yes; and I see so few people who really interest me, except the Vicar—my brother-in-law. He's a good fellow, and I like him, but we do not always hit it off together—my fault, no doubt. Who chose your name for you? My brother?"
"No; I have heard mother say she chose it herself. It means 'happiness' you know."
He smiled assent, then said with a sigh: "No one is happy in this world."
"Oh, yes!" Felicia exclaimed quickly. "I am sure some people are, but some don't know the way—"
"I didn't know happiness could be learnt," he said with a light laugh as she broke off in the midst of her sentence, abashed by the satirical expression of his face. She was very sensitive to ridicule and looked quite confused. "I wish you would teach me the way to be happy, if you know it," he continued in a bantering way; "it's a lesson I unfortunately never learnt."
"Mother used to say that to be happy one must be good and unselfish," Felicia replied in a grave, low voice. "Oh!" she exclaimed with a sudden change of tone, her face breaking into a smile, "did you hear that scrape at the door? It's the dog. May I let him in?"
He assented, and she ran and admitted Lion, who evinced great joy at the sight of her, and when she resumed her seat, took up his position by her side, resting his great head upon her knee. By-and-by a servant entered to lay the table for lunch, which Mr. Guy—he was always called so in the household—insisted on his niece taking with him. Her heart filled with pity when he left his sofa and crossed the room to the table, and she realised for the first time how much he was deformed, but she had the tact not to show it. On the whole, uncle and niece were not unfavourably impressed with each other; and the former's mental comment after the latter had left him was—
"The child has individuality, and there is nothing low or common about her. I am inclined to like this 'ditch flower' as father so aptly termed her—poor little thing!"
AT Mrs. Price's suggestion, Felicia spent her first afternoon at the Priory in going over the house. It was a rambling abode, for it had been added to on several occasions. The wing in which were Mr. Guy's rooms was comparatively modern, but much of the house was very old, notably the big dining and drawing rooms, the windows of which opened upon a smooth, well-kept lawn. In the flower-garden adjoining the house were the ruins of a chapel, some of the massive walls of which still stood firm, overgrown with moss and ivy.
It was Ann White who took Felicia over the house, and afterwards escorted her for a short walk in the grounds. The latter discovered that the water she had remarked from her bedroom window was a small, artificial lake, on which a pair of swans and a lot of ducks were disporting themselves on this fine, summer afternoon. The little girl was much interested, but rather over-awed by all she saw, for the Priory appeared a magnificent home in her eyes, quite a palatial residence, in fact. It was difficult to realise that her father had been born and brought up in this stately old house, or that the rooms, over which a melancholy stillness seemed to hang, had ever resounded with the echo of children's footsteps and children's laughter. Perhaps some such thoughts were in Ann's mind, too, for as they crossed the lawn on their way back to the house, she remarked—
"It will be pleasant to have a child about. I'm glad you've come, miss."
"Are you?" questioned Felicia, her pale face brightening.
"Yes," the girl nodded. "The place is strange to you now, and I daresay it strikes you as big and lonely, but by-and-by you'll grow to love it. I'm sure you will."
Felicia sighed, for she had grave doubts if such would be the case. The house filled her with a sensation of nervousness which she had never experienced elsewhere; she would rather have had the tiniest room than the large, handsomely furnished apartment she had occupied on the previous night.
Late in the evening Mr. Renford returned. He sent for Felicia at once, and interviewed her in his study. He had spent the day in Bristol, he explained, and had verified her statements.
"I have seen Mrs. M'Cosh, and have brought back all your possessions," he said. "In future, your home will be here, and I hope you will be a good, obedient girl. I think you are a truthful one. To-morrow I will introduce you to your aunt and cousins, and to your Uncle Guy—"
"Oh, I have seen him!" Felicia interposed quickly.
"Seen him?" he echoed. "Whom?"
"Uncle Guy. We—we had a long talk together, and I had dinner—lunch, I mean—with him in his sitting-room. I—I did not know I had an uncle before to-day."
"No? Then your mother told you nothing about your father's relations?"
She shook her head. "Did Mrs. M'Cosh send me no message?" she asked wistfully.
"Let me see. Yes. She sent her best respects, and desired me to assure you she would see your mother's grave was not neglected. By the way, I settled with her for the expenses of your mother's funeral, so you are no longer under any obligation to her on that account. She would take nothing else from me."
Mr. Renford looked a little annoyed as he spoke; he would have liked to have drawn a cheque for an amount which he would have considered sufficiently large to pay Mrs. M'Cosh for all the trouble she had been put to in connection with his grand-daughter, but he had not been allowed to do that. Felicia was beginning to thank him for what he had done, when he cut her short, and dismissed her.
Immediately she was out of his sight and the study door closed behind her, she flew upstairs to her own room, where she spent the next half-hour in unpacking her box, which she found awaiting her. She put her clothes away in the wardrobe, wondering what the servants would think of them, for they were patched and darned, and of the cheapest quality. Then she shed some tears over her mother's Bible, which she placed on the table by the bedside, meaning to use it herself for the future, and sobbed bitterly at the sight of her mother's workbox, containing the simple tools which had helped to earn their daily bread.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried in an agony of grief, "why did God let you die? Oh, I never, never can be happy without you!"
She wept until her head ached, feeling utterly friendless and alone in the world. Life seemed so dark and dreary, and she dreaded the future with her grandfather and Uncle Guy. Thoroughly exhausted at last, she flung herself by the side of the bed and prayed, and by-and-by comfort came to her, as it surely comes to every soul that holds communion with God.
The next morning she breakfasted with her grandfather. She was far from being at her ease with him, for she was conscious he was observing her closely, and that made her unusually shy and awkward. Her hands trembled so much with nervousness that she spilt some drops of coffee on the spotless table-cloth, and she was so overcome with confusion at the sight of the ugly, brown stains, that the tears rose to her eyes, and she had some difficulty in retaining her composure.
"Never mind, child," Mr. Renford said, noticing and pitying her embarrassment, "that's nothing. Why, you're actually shaking! What a nervous little creature you seem to be!"
She was very thankful when the meal was over. Afterwards her grandfather sent her to fetch her hat, and informed her he was going to take her for a walk. Accompanied by Lion they went down the carriage drive, and ten minutes later found them at the front door of the Vicarage, which was opened by the Vicar himself.
"I saw you coming from my study window," he explained. "Mary and the children are in the kitchen garden gathering raspberries for preserving. Come in and I'll send for them. This—" and he bent his gaze on the little girl as he spoke—"is, I suppose, Felicia?"
"Yes," Mr. Renford answered; "she is very like her father in features, you will see."
The Vicar took Felicia's hand and pressed it cordially. He had dark, near-sighted eyes, grave and kindly in expression, and Felicia returned his smile with one so frank and bright that her grandfather was surprised at the difference it made to her face—hitherto she had seemed on the verge of tears.
Mr. Pring led the way into the dining-room, and there they were presently joined by his wife and little daughters. Felicia decided she would like her aunt, who greeted her with a warmth and goodwill which touched her sorrowful heart, and her cousins expressed themselves glad to see her, too, especially Molly, who sat down by her side and entered into conversation with her at once.
"Do you think you will like living at the Priory?" was the first question Molly asked.
"I—I hardly know," was the doubtful response.
"It's a dear old place. I love it, and so does Doris. I expect you'll be a bit lonely there at first, though, until you get to know grandfather better. You are fond of animals, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I thought you must be, because grandfather told us how Lion took a fancy to you at once, and animals never like those who are not fond of them. I have lots of pets—rabbits, guinea-pigs, and white mice. Doris doesn't care for pets, but I am sure you do."
Felicia soon grew at her ease with Molly, and forgot that her grandfather's eyes were upon her. Though she did not talk much herself, she evinced great interest in her cousin's remarks; and, being a regular little chatterbox, Molly gave her a great deal of information concerning herself and her family, so that she was quite sorry when her grandfather said she must return with him to the Priory, and declined to allow her to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage.
"You will have plenty of time with your cousins later on," Mr. Renford said to Felicia as they were going home; "and I promised Guy you should spend an hour or so with him this afternoon. Your uncle appears interested in you, and I am sure if your society gives him any pleasure I shall be very glad. Poor Guy! he misses his mother sadly."
"Oh, I know he must!" she cried earnestly, deepest sympathy in her tone. "I am so very sorry for him. It must be terrible to be always ill. Does he never leave the house?"
"Sometimes he may stroll out into the sunshine for a short while, but he never goes outside our own grounds. He has not been downstairs for weeks now. I wish I could rouse him. In his mother's lifetime he used to join us at meals, but now he takes them in his own sitting-room."
There was an expression of sadness and regret on her grandfather's countenance which appealed to the little girl's heart. She reflected that he, too, must have been very lonely since her grandmother's death, and she was sorry for him. Did she not herself know what it meant to lose one's best-beloved by death? She would have liked to have put her sympathy into words, but she was far too shy to make the attempt.
During the next few days she saw her uncle every afternoon. Sometimes he kept her with him for a long while; sometimes he merely had a few minutes' conversation with her. He appeared capricious, but so far she had seen no exhibition of the temper which Ann had mentioned.
About a week after her arrival at the Priory, Felicia passed a very happy day in the society of her relations at the Vicarage; and she was delighted to hear of an arrangement which her aunt informed her was likely to be made for her education, which was that she should be taught with her cousins by their governess.
"In which case you will come here every morning, dine with us, and return to the Priory at four o'clock," Mrs. Pring explained. "It is not quite settled, because we have not yet consulted Miss Barton about it, but I imagine she will raise no objection to our plan. She will be back next week, for her mother, whom she went home to nurse, is much better and able to do without her now. I see you like the idea of studying with your cousins, my dear."
"Oh, yes," Felicia replied earnestly. "I—I went to the Board School in Bristol before mother grew very ill. Mother said I must be educated and she had no money to pay school fees for me. It was different before her bad illness. Oh, if it had not been for that, I believe she would be living still! Oh, Aunt Mary, you don't know how people suffer when they are very, very poor!" And the tears fell whilst Mrs. Pring realised that there were memories from her little niece's past which nothing would ever blot out.
DORIS and Molly Pring found their cousin very reserved at first, and disinclined to exchange confidences with them, but after a little while she became more communicative. She refrained from mentioning her mother to them, however, and kept silence respecting the two years she had spent in Bristol, for it was easy to see Doris and Molly knew nothing of trouble, and she shrank sensitively from allowing them an insight into that time which had been so fraught with poverty and sickness.
Felicia soon discovered that there were no poor people in N—; that is to say, there were none who lacked the necessaries of life. The heads of the families in the village were mostly farm labourers, and men employed in the clay works which were situated half-a-mile distant, and if they did not get large wages they earned sufficient for their needs, and their wives and children were comfortably clothed and well-fed. Most of the cottage homes belonged to Mr. Renford, who was an excellent landlord, and kept his property in good repair, and if sickness visited any of his tenants he was always ready to lend them a helping hand. When Felicia came to understand how much her grandfather was liked and respected by all who were brought in contact with him, she grew more and more indignant with him on her mother's account. Why had he allowed her to die in that Bristol garret when he might have done so much to help her? She did not reflect that he had been in total ignorance of her mother's whereabouts, or that Mrs. Renford—fearful of being parted from her child—had purposely kept him in the dark concerning her circumstances. Felicia only saw that he was kind to outsiders, to people who had no real claim upon him, and the remembrance that he had shown himself hard and unsympathetic to her mother—his own son's wife—was very, very bitter.
The little girl had been at the Priory fully a fortnight, when one day Molly Pring brought the news that Miss Barton had returned, and had consented to take a third pupil under her charge; therefore Felicia would be expected at the Vicarage on the following morning.
"Mother told me to tell you to be sure to be in good time," said Molly, "for we begin lessons at the tick of ten o'clock. Why, how pleased you look! You're much more eager to get to work than I am; for my part, I wish it was holidays always. But we're very glad to get Miss Barton back, for we're all very fond of her. You'll like her, Felicia."
When Felicia appeared at the Vicarage at the hour appointed next morning, she was met at the door by her aunt, who immediately took her upstairs to the schoolroom, where her cousins and their governess were awaiting her. The instant Felicia was introduced to Miss Barton she knew she had seen her before. The swift, observant glance the governess cast upon her seemed quite familiar, as was the smile which lit up her pretty face, and Felicia uttered a glad cry of recognition, whilst her countenance glowed with pleasure.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance—" Miss Barton was beginning when she paused and looked puzzled. "Have we met before?" she proceeded doubtfully; "I don't think I remember you, my dear."
"But I remember you!" Felicia burst forth. "Oh, it is wonderful—wonderful! Of course you don't remember me, although it was only such a short time since we met, for you only saw me for a minute. You gave me some lilies—beautiful white lilies; I took them home to my mother, and she said they came like a message from God to remind her of His promises. Don't you remember me now? I was looking in the window of that big shop in Park Street, and you came out with a great bunch of lilies in your hand, and you never said a word—ah, you remember now!"
Miss Barton had but a slight recollection of the personal appearance of the child who had been the recipient of her impulsive gift, and she looked both surprised and puzzled, whilst Mrs. Pring and her little daughters regarded Felicia in amazement, wondering to see her so excited.
"I am afraid I don't really remember you," Miss Barton admitted frankly; "that is to say, I do not recognise you as the same little girl to whom I gave the flowers."
"Oh, but I am the same!" Felicia broke in eagerly. "Oh, it was good and kind of you! I wish you could have seen mother's face when she caught sight of the lilies, and what do you think she said afterwards?—'God bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is.' Oh, I never thought I should see you again! How very, very glad I am!"
Miss Barton smiled very kindly at the excited child, and said she was delighted—and she looked it—to hear that the flowers had given Mrs. Renford pleasure, whilst Mrs. Pring, grasping the situation at last, put her arms around her niece and gave her a loving kiss ere she left the schoolroom in search of her husband to tell him that Felicia and the governess had met before.
Felicia was happier to-day than she had been since her mother's death, and when, lessons over at four o'clock, she returned to the Priory, there was a little pleased smile on her lips, and a faint flush on her generally pale cheeks. Price informed her that the master was out, but that Mr. Guy wished to see her at once. She immediately went to her uncle's sitting-room, and found him lying on the sofa by the window as usual. A table at his side was littered with papers and magazines, but he pushed it away as his niece entered.
"Come here, Felicia," he said, "and tell me how you like your governess."
"Like her? Why, I love her!" she cried enthusiastically, "there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her!"
"Really? Why, it must have been a case of love at first sight. I had no idea you were such an impressionable little creature. How bright you look—and happy."
"I have been very happy to-day," admitted Felicia; "and I never thought I could be happy again."
He muttered something under his breath about the young having few lasting griefs, but Felicia heard the words, and her face clouded immediately. She took a chair near his sofa, the smile fading from her lips, the light dying out of her blue eyes. For a few minutes there was silence between them.
"You have not told me the cause of your happiness," he said at length.
"No," she answered in a reserved tone; "I don't think I can. I don't think I can speak of it to you."
"Why not?" he demanded sharply.
"Because—because it's to do with my mother, and perhaps you would not understand."
"If not, no harm would be done by your having told me, I suppose?"
"N—o—o," she allowed.
Then, in slightly faltering accents, she spoke to him of the gift of the white lilies, and tried to explain what it had meant to her mother, whilst he listened with an interest which increased when he heard that it had been Miss Barton who had performed the kindly act which had left such a deep, tender impression on his little niece's mind.
"What a strange coincidence!" he exclaimed. "And she did not recognise you, you say?"
"No. Oh, I was glad to see her again!"
"It seems a slight thing she did to be so grateful for."
"You don't understand, Uncle Guy; I thought you would not. It was not a slight thing to mother and me; it seemed as though God sent us the lilies to remind us of His promises."
"But, Felicia, how could that be?"
"It's in the Bible, you know."
"I don't know, child. I don't read the Bible—to do so would only make me melancholy. Your grandmother used to try to talk of religion to me, but I wouldn't have it; and the Vicar—but never mind that. I want to hear about your mother and the lilies. How could they remind her of God's promises?"