"MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,""You cannot tell what a great pleasureit was to master and me to receive your letter.I was that glad I could have cried. It is sogood to know you are well cared for, and thateveryone is kind to you.""Your grandfather is not in the least likewhat I had pictured him, or like what your poor,dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure hewill do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear youruncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to bea comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I areglad you have an aunt and cousins, and that youlike them so much. Fancy the lady who gave youthose lilies being your governess! It is wonderful.""And now I must speak of the present you sentus, which arrived quite safe. I never received sucha hamperful of good things in my life before.The butter and cream were most delicious, and thefowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of theeggs was smashed—master said they looked as thoughthey had been laid by country hens, but, of course,that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he musthave had something to do with sending us such ahandsome present.""On Saturday evening master and I walked to thecemetery, and master clipped the grass which isgrowing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, youmustn't grieve for her more than you can help, forshe's gone to a world where she's better off thanthe richest of us here, and I know she'd wish youto be happy—happy and good.""And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, formaster and I go on just the same as usual, so I willbring my letter to a close. Please give my bestrespects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeinghow things have changed for you lately—you haven'ta truer well-wisher than your friend. MARIA M'COSH"
"MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,""You cannot tell what a great pleasureit was to master and me to receive your letter.I was that glad I could have cried. It is sogood to know you are well cared for, and thateveryone is kind to you.""Your grandfather is not in the least likewhat I had pictured him, or like what your poor,dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure hewill do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear youruncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to bea comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I areglad you have an aunt and cousins, and that youlike them so much. Fancy the lady who gave youthose lilies being your governess! It is wonderful.""And now I must speak of the present you sentus, which arrived quite safe. I never received sucha hamperful of good things in my life before.The butter and cream were most delicious, and thefowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of theeggs was smashed—master said they looked as thoughthey had been laid by country hens, but, of course,that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he musthave had something to do with sending us such ahandsome present.""On Saturday evening master and I walked to thecemetery, and master clipped the grass which isgrowing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, youmustn't grieve for her more than you can help, forshe's gone to a world where she's better off thanthe richest of us here, and I know she'd wish youto be happy—happy and good.""And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, formaster and I go on just the same as usual, so I willbring my letter to a close. Please give my bestrespects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeinghow things have changed for you lately—you haven'ta truer well-wisher than your friend. MARIA M'COSH"
"MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,""You cannot tell what a great pleasureit was to master and me to receive your letter.I was that glad I could have cried. It is sogood to know you are well cared for, and thateveryone is kind to you.""Your grandfather is not in the least likewhat I had pictured him, or like what your poor,dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure hewill do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear youruncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to bea comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I areglad you have an aunt and cousins, and that youlike them so much. Fancy the lady who gave youthose lilies being your governess! It is wonderful.""And now I must speak of the present you sentus, which arrived quite safe. I never received sucha hamperful of good things in my life before.The butter and cream were most delicious, and thefowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of theeggs was smashed—master said they looked as thoughthey had been laid by country hens, but, of course,that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he musthave had something to do with sending us such ahandsome present.""On Saturday evening master and I walked to thecemetery, and master clipped the grass which isgrowing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, youmustn't grieve for her more than you can help, forshe's gone to a world where she's better off thanthe richest of us here, and I know she'd wish youto be happy—happy and good.""And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, formaster and I go on just the same as usual, so I willbring my letter to a close. Please give my bestrespects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeinghow things have changed for you lately—you haven'ta truer well-wisher than your friend. MARIA M'COSH"
"MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,"
"You cannot tell what a great pleasure
it was to master and me to receive your letter.
I was that glad I could have cried. It is so
good to know you are well cared for, and that
everyone is kind to you."
"Your grandfather is not in the least like
what I had pictured him, or like what your poor,
dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure he
will do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear your
uncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to be
a comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I are
glad you have an aunt and cousins, and that you
like them so much. Fancy the lady who gave you
those lilies being your governess! It is wonderful."
"And now I must speak of the present you sent
us, which arrived quite safe. I never received such
a hamperful of good things in my life before.
The butter and cream were most delicious, and the
fowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of the
eggs was smashed—master said they looked as though
they had been laid by country hens, but, of course,
that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,
and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he must
have had something to do with sending us such a
handsome present."
"On Saturday evening master and I walked to the
cemetery, and master clipped the grass which is
growing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, you
mustn't grieve for her more than you can help, for
she's gone to a world where she's better off than
the richest of us here, and I know she'd wish you
to be happy—happy and good."
"And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, for
master and I go on just the same as usual, so I will
bring my letter to a close. Please give my best
respects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,
and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeing
how things have changed for you lately—you haven't
a truer well-wisher than your friend. MARIA M'COSH"
"She used to call me 'Felicia,' she calls me 'Miss Felicia' now," mused the little girl; "I suppose that's because things have changed for me lately, as she says. She seems to have been very pleased with her hamper; I'm so glad grandfather told me to send it. It was kind of Mr. M'Cosh to cut the grass on mother's grave. What is it Mrs. M'Cosh says, that mother's gone to a world where she's better off than the richest of us here? Oh, I'm sure of that! But I am glad she wrote it, and reminded me that mother would wish me to be happy—happy and good."
"MOLLY, what have I done to offend Doris?" asked Felicia of her younger cousin one Saturday afternoon a few weeks later. "She treats me as though I had injured her in some way; haven't you noticed it?"
"Yes," admitted Molly reluctantly; "it's very unkind of her, and foolish too, but Doris is like that."
"Like what?" demanded Felicia in bewilderment. "Do tell me what you mean, for I haven't the least idea what I have done to annoy her. I'm sure I wouldn't put her out if I could help it."
The two little girls—devoted friends they were now—had established themselves on the seat under the arbutus tree in the Priory garden, with Lion stretched at their feet, asleep. Doris had been asked to accompany her sister, but she had declined to do so; she had enough of Felicia's society on working days, she had said, without wanting to spend the weekly holiday with her, too.
"I think she is jealous of you, Felicia," Molly said gravely, with a sigh and a troubled expression creeping into her clear eyes.
"Oh, Molly! Because you and I are such great friends?"
"Well, partly that, perhaps, and because Uncle Guy has taken such a fancy to you. Mother says she's very glad he has, and grandfather's pleased, but I'm sure Doris is jealous; and—and she was so put out when she heard grandfather had driven you to T—. Doris is like that, you know; she's jealous of me, too, if she thinks any one likes me better than her. Don't you worry about it."
"Oh, but I'm so sorry!" exclaimed Felicia. "If I had known she would have liked that drive with grandfather so much, I would have asked him to take her instead of me. Did she see much of Uncle Guy before I came?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then why should she mind?"
"Of course there's no real reason why she should, but she does. Mother says jealous people are never reasonable. Never mind her—if she likes to keep herself to herself we'll let her. She'll have a dull afternoon at the Vicarage, for Miss Barton's gone out with mother, and father's gone to watch the village lads play cricket. Why, Felicia, surely that's Uncle Guy standing at the front door!"
"Yes, and he sees us. I believe he's coming here. He spent quite a long while in the garden yesterday, and afterwards he said he thought it had done him good. Shall we go and meet him?" And springing to her feet, Felicia ran across the lawn and caught her uncle by the hand. "Come and sit under the arbutus tree with Molly and me, Uncle Guy," she said coaxingly; "it's so cool and pleasant there."
"So I thought," he replied with a smile. "I've been watching you two from my sitting-room window, wondering what you've been talking about so seriously. I suppose you have a great many secrets—eh? Well, Molly, how's the world serving you? Very well? That's good hearing. Oh, I'm to sit between you, am I?"
"Yes, do," Molly rejoined, thinking what a nice face her uncle had when he smiled, and what a pity it was he did not always look so good-tempered. "Are you comfortable? Shall I fetch some cushions?"
"No, no, I'm all right; my back's on its best behaviour to-day. But I'm afraid I've interrupted a confidential talk—eh, Molly? Where is Doris, by the way?"
"She preferred to remain at home," Molly answered, with a touch of reserve in her tone, whilst Felicia looked embarrassed—two facts, neither of which passed unnoticed by their uncle, though he did not remark upon them.
"I wonder if Mrs. Price would send out our tea to us here," he suggested presently; "run indoors and ask her, Felicia." Then, as the little girl sped across the lawn, he turned to Molly and inquired: "Why wouldn't Doris come with you this afternoon? Doesn't she like her cousin?"
"Well, no, I suppose she doesn't," Molly was obliged to admit.
"Why not?"
Molly hesitated, and glanced at her uncle anxiously, doubtful of the wisdom of taking him into her confidence.
"I'm not sure I ought to tell you," she said at length; "but—but Doris is very jealous of Felicia, because every one likes her—not only you and grandfather, but mother, and father, and Miss Barton, too. Doris says she cannot think what we all see in her to make us like her so much, and she is always talking about her mother having been a 'nobody,' and saying that Felicia is deceptive. She isn't! Doris says she makes believe to be religious to please father, but I'm sure that's not true. Oh, Uncle Guy, you won't tell any one this, will you?"
"Certainly I will not. So Doris thinks Felicia's religion is a pretence?"
Molly nodded.
"And you don't think so?"
"No, Uncle Guy. It's real."
"Yes, it's real—to her; I believe it's a great comfort and source of happiness to her. She brought a very sore heart to the Priory, poor little girl! I am pleased she has a friend in you, Molly."
"I'm so glad you like her, too," Molly declared earnestly.
"Then you are not jealous of her?"
"Oh, Uncle Guy, no!"
"You need not be. It is very cruel to begrudge her a few pleasures after what her life must have been in the past; perhaps if Doris knew the privations her cousin has suffered, she would not be jealous of her because she has fallen upon better days."
"She does know," Molly admitted with a sigh. "Oh, here comes Felicia! Please don't let her guess we've been talking about her, Uncle Guy."
Felicia was now crossing the lawn, carrying a wicker tea-table, whilst Ann White followed, bearing a tray with the tea-things. Just at that moment Mr. Renford came up the carriage drive, and catching sight of the group under the arbutus tree made towards it.
"That's right, grandfather, come and have some tea!" cried Molly. "There's no room for you on the seat, but I'll get you a chair," and she flew into the house and fetched one for him.
"This is pleasanter than indoors—eh, Guy?" said Mr. Renford.
His son assented; and then the question arose which of the little girls should pour out the tea.
"You, Felicia, because you live here," said Molly, generously willing to give up what she considered a post of honour.
"No, you, Molly, because you're the elder," Felicia replied; "oh, yes, please do!"
And seeing her cousin really wished it, Molly officiated at the tea-table, and felt very important and happy as mistress of the ceremonies.
"There are several gipsies' caravans on the common outside the village," Mr. Renford announced by-and-by. "I noticed some gipsy women selling brushes and tinware at the cottages; I must warn the servants not to encourage them here. I hope they won't stay long in the district, for I'm not partial to gipsies."
"Oh, I think they're rather nice!" said Molly; "such a dear little gipsy boy came to the back door of the Vicarage yesterday to beg a drink of water. I was in the kitchen at the time, and cook gave him a glass of milk. He was so grateful. And when I was out in the evening with father, we met two gipsy men, and they spoke very civilly. But I did not know they had encamped on the common. How I should like to see the inside of a caravan, shouldn't you, Felicia?"
"Yes," assented Felicia eagerly; "couldn't we walk to the common by-and-by, and have a look at the caravans?"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Renford decisively; "I forbid you to go near the common, for the less one has to do with gipsies the better. I have a shrewd suspicion that they sup off game from my preserves every night, for they have several lurchers with them, I notice; and lurchers, as a rule, are not kept to do nothing—they earn their living, you may depend. Gipsies are always thieves."
"Isn't that rather a sweeping assertion?" Mr. Guy asked carelessly.
"Well, perhaps it is," his father admitted; "but I mistrust them. I suppose they are waiting about to attend some fair in the neighbourhood."
Mr. Renford did not inquire why Doris was not with her sister, and both Molly and Felicia were relieved that he did not. A very pleasant, two hours were passed under the arbutus tree, and when Molly returned to the Vicarage she could talk of nothing but the happy afternoon she had spent.
"And I poured out the tea," she told Doris; "Felicia made me. Wasn't that nice of her? If you had been there, of course you would have done it. It was silly of you to stay away; you missed such an enjoyable time. Uncle Guy was as nice as anyone possibly could be, and he looks so much better and brighter than he did a few weeks ago; and grandfather was in splendid spirits, too, only he seemed rather put out because some gipsies have encamped on the common. Felicia wanted to go and look at the caravans, but he forbade her to do so."
"Did grandfather inquire for me?" asked Doris.
"No, he never mentioned your name."
"Oh!" Doris looked decidedly piqued. "I daresay you didn't miss me?" she said half-questioningly.
"Not much," Molly responded frankly. "How foolish you are, Doris," she proceeded; "why need you be jealous of Felicia? She feels nothing but goodwill for you. As Uncle Guy says, it is very cruel to begrudge her a few pleasures after what her life must have been in the past—"
"You have been talking to Uncle Guy about me?" Doris broke in. "Oh, how—how mean of you!"
"I could not help it. He questioned me, and you know he is very sharp and puts two and two together. It's your fault for not going with me this afternoon. I expect you've had a dull time at home, haven't you?"
Doris was obliged to admit that she had, for, except for the servants, she had had the house to herself, and time had hung heavily on her hands. She had grown rather ashamed of her jealous temper during the hours she had spent in solitude; and now acknowledged to herself that she had shown herself very small-minded. She determined she would be nicer and less reserved to Felicia for the future, or perhaps Uncle Guy would take her to task upon the point, and she certainly did not desire that.
"I wonder why he likes her so much," she mused; "I know he does like her by the sound of his voice when he speaks of 'our little ditch flower,' as he always calls her. I don't suppose he ever shows his temper to her."
There Doris was wrong, for Felicia had witnessed several exhibitions of poor Uncle Guy's temper since the evening Lion had upset the table and broken the Venetian vase; but she was learning to have patience with him, and was, all unknowingly, gaining a greater influence over him on that account.
FOR several days Doris held to her determination to be nicer to her cousin, and Felicia, who was not in the least of a resentful disposition, met her half-way, so that things went more comfortably. Miss Barton was pleased to note this, and hoped Doris had overcome her jealous spirit; but, as a matter of fact, it was only slumbering, and a few words of her mother's, casually spoken, and not intended for her ears, proved quite sufficient to, awaken it once more.
"It is wonderful what a power that child is becoming at the Priory," Mrs. Pring had remarked to her husband. "Mrs. Price tells me that father is growing very fond of her, and Guy's simply wrapped up in her. And she's not been there quite three months!"
Doris was thinking of these words—which she had overheard—as she strolled about the front garden of her home one afternoon, close on tea-time. She was really trying to overcome the feeling of jealousy which was struggling for predominance in her heart, and had nearly succeeded in doing so, when, on reaching the laurel hedge which divided the garden from the road, she heard voices—one of which she was certain was her cousin's.
"Who can Felicia be talking to?" she thought. "She ought to be at the Priory, for she left here nearly half-an-hour ago. Perhaps she's with grandfather."
Her jealousy in arms again, she peeped between the laurels, quite expecting to see Mr. Renford, and gave a little gasp of astonishment at the sight which met her gaze—Felicia, with a bundle in her arms, and a little dark-haired, dark-eyed gipsy maiden of about eight years of age, coming along the road side by side, apparently deep in a confidential conversation. As the couple passed by, Doris saw that the bundle Felicia was carrying was a very young baby, wrapped in an old faded shawl, and she also remarked that the little gipsy girl's face was tear-stained, whilst she limped in her walk.
"Well," exclaimed Doris in amazement, "I wonder what this means! And what would grandfather say if he saw Felicia at this moment? Where can she be going? It cannot be that she intends going to the encampment? I believe that is it. Oh, what a naughty, disobedient girl she is, when grandfather forbade her to go there, and she knows he dislikes gipsies How can she bear to touch that horrid baby! It's sure to be a dirty little creature. I'll wait and see her when she goes back, and hear what she has to say for herself; she'll be obliged to pass this way."
Feeling greatly excited and very curious, she went to the garden gate leading into the road; but fully twenty minutes elapsed before her cousin at length reappeared in sight. Felicia was alone and running, but she came to a full stop as her eyes fell on the figure at the gate, and she exclaimed—
"Oh, Doris, is that you? Where do you think I've been?"
"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Doris responded severely. "I saw you pass just now with a dirty, common, gipsy child, and you were actually carrying a baby. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Why?" asked Felicia, looking taken aback. She was hot and flushed, and spoke rather breathlessly. "I don't think the little girl was dirty," she added dubiously, "or the baby either."
"How came you to be with them?" demanded Doris in a tone of rebuke. She considered her three years' seniority gave her the right to take the other to task.
"Well, it was like this. I had nearly reached home when I caught up to a little girl carrying a baby. I saw at once that they were gipsies, so I took no notice of them because of what grandfather had said; but suddenly I heard a scream, and then I stopped and glanced behind to see what had happened, and oh, Doris, the poor little girl had fallen with the baby and knocked herself! The baby wasn't hurt a bit, though it cried dreadfully, and I went back and picked it up and tried to quiet it—the dear little thing!—end presently it stopped crying; but the poor little girl had knocked her knees and hurt one of her arms so badly—I suppose she must have sprained it—that she couldn't possibly carry the baby, and so, of course, I had to. What else could I have done? I couldn't have left them there in the road. Grandfather wouldn't have wished me to do that, would he? Why, that would have been acting like the priest and the Levite in the parable! Oh, you surely don't think grandfather will be angry with me for carrying the baby back to its mother?" and Felicia regarded her cousin with anxious blue eyes.
"You took it to the encampment?" Doris inquired. She would not have touched the baby herself, much less have taken it in her arms.
"Yes. The poor mother was so grateful to me. Surely grandfather will not mind when I tell him?"
"I believe he will be furious with you," Doris declared emphatically; "you have most deliberately disobeyed him. Molly told me that he forbade you to go to the common whilst the gipsies remained there."
"He did, but—"
"He will accept no excuses for disobedience. Why, instead of taking possession of the baby like that, did you not go to the Priory and send one of the servants to the assistance of the little gipsy girl?"
"I never thought of that," Felicia replied truthfully; "I suppose that is what I ought to have done," she added with a sigh, for the way in which Doris had taken her story had rather alarmed her.
"Of course. Grandfather will say so. Oh, how angry he will be! Nothing upsets him more than to have any order he gives set at defiance. How very foolishly you have behaved, to be sure!"
Felicia was filled with dismay. No other course had presented itself to her mind but to herself befriend the gipsy children; she had thought she could easily explain the matter to Mr. Renford, but Doris had put it in a different light.
"Do you—do you think grandfather will punish me for disobeying him?" she asked hesitatingly, after a few minutes' uneasy reflection. "He has never been angry with me yet—"
"He will be now," Doris interposed; "you may take my word for that."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Felicia; "what do you imagine he will do to me?"
"I don't know." Doris paused a moment, as though she was considering the point, then she went on: "Soon after your arrival at the Priory, grandfather was talking to mother about you, and I overheard him say, 'We will try the plan of educating her with her cousins, but if it does not answer—if she proves troublesome or, disobedient, I shall send her to a strict boarding-school.' Those were his exact words. How would you like to go to boarding-school, Felicia?"
"Not at all. Oh, do you really think grandfather will send me to one just for such a little thing as that? Oh, I don't want to leave the Priory now; I've grown to like it; and there's Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary, and—and—oh, I do hope I shan't be sent away from you all!" The tears rose to Felicia's eyes, and slowly trickled down her cheeks. "I meant no harm," she added plaintively, "but I see now I did wrong."
"Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?" suggested Doris, her conscience beginning to prick her for teasing her cousin, who was evidently in great distress. She knew well enough Mr. Renford had now no intention of sending Felicia to boarding-school, though he had contemplated the idea seriously at one time. "Did you meet anyone in particular on your way to the common?"
"Only a few of the villagers."
"Well, I shan't tell grandfather or anyone—not even Molly—that you were with the gipsies, so you can please yourself whether you mention the matter or not."
"Oh, thank you! It is very good of you to say that, but I think perhaps that it would be right—that I ought to tell grandfather—"
Doris did not wait to hear the completion of the sentence, but turned impatiently away and retraced her footsteps to the house, whilst Felicia walked on slowly towards the Priory in a very disturbed state of mind. She had no idea that Doris had been deliberately endeavouring to frighten her with the thought of her grandfather's anger, and her spirits grew more and more depressed as she reflected on the possibility of being sent to boarding-school. She felt so upset that she took a turn around the lake to gain time and control of her feelings before encountering her grandfather and Uncle Guy; and when, at last, she entered the house, it was a positive relief to hear that the former was not at home.
"Father's bothered about the gipsies," Uncle Guy informed her when she sought him in his sitting-room, where, subsequently, they had tea together; "they've been setting snares for rabbits in the woods, he has found several himself to-day, and he's furious about it. I believe father would rather give away a hundred rabbits than have one poached. Woe betide the man caught in the preserves after this!"
"Do you think it is really the gipsies who are snaring the rabbits?" Felicia asked in somewhat faltering accents.
"Little doubt of it. I only hope there will be no fuss between them and the gamekeepers. Poachers are, as a rule, a desperate set. I wish these gipsies would see fit to clear out of the district."
"I wish they had never come," Felicia said so fervently that her uncle was surprised.
The little girl had resolved she would tell her grandfather she had been to the encampment, and explain the circumstances which bad taken her there; but, unfortunately, she did not see him that night, and the next morning, when she met him at breakfast, he was so full of his grievances against the gipsies that she could not summon up sufficient courage to make her confession. So the opportunity for telling him passed, and as the day wore on she began to ask herself if she need tell him at all. Why should she risk his anger when she had not intended to do any harm? Still, she had disobeyed him, and her conscience told her she ought to inform him of the fact. She did not do so, however, for the longer she procrastinated, the greater became her dread of speaking out, and at the root of her cowardice was the fear that he would send her away from the Priory. Her relations had become very dear to her, especially Uncle Guy, and Molly—the only friend near her own age she had ever possessed, whilst she had grown deeply attached to Miss Barton, in whose favour she had been prejudiced from the first.
"Have you told grandfather about the little gipsy girl you played the good Samaritan to the other afternoon?" Doris asked Felicia a few days later, with a faint note of sarcasm in her quiet voice.
"No; I took your advice—"
"My advice?" Doris quickly interrogated; "what do you mean? I gave you no advice that I remember."
"You said, 'Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?'" Felicia reminded her a trifle reproachfully.
"Well, that was merely asking you a question. I never advised you not to—you know I did not."
"But—I thought—I thought—"
Felicia paused, her face twitching with emotion, a sensation of indignation against her cousin in her heart. She saw now that Doris would not be sorry if she got into trouble with her grandfather.
"Why are you so unkind to me, Doris?" she demanded at length in a pained tone. "I have done you no harm, but yet you dislike me. We are never alone without you say things to hurt me. Is it because Molly and I are friends? Oh, surely you need not be jealous on that account!"
"And do you think I am jealous of you?" Doris asked, her usual reserve of manner deserting her as she realised her cousin had discovered the truth; "of you," she went on scornfully, "who have been accustomed to live in a garret in a common lodging-house? They are right when they call you a ditch flower—"
She stopped, cowed by the flash in her cousin's blue eyes, and turned away with a short, embarrassed laugh, and a shamed expression crossing her face; whilst Felicia with difficulty restrained the passionate words which rushed to her lips, and wisely held her peace.
IT was a lovely Sunday afternoon in September, with a fresh, sweet air stirring the yellowing leaves of the tall, elm trees which grew near the lake in the Priory grounds, around which Felicia wandered disconsolately, watching the ducks and swans disporting themselves in the water. Her heart was very heavy, for Uncle Guy was ill, suffering from one of the acute attacks of pain to which he was subject on occasions; and her grandfather had spent all the day, so far, in his son's room, which latter fact alarmed the little girl and made her guess the truth, that the invalid was far worse than usual. The doctor had been at the Priory during the morning, but he could do little to ease the sufferings of his patient.
"The pain will just wear itself out," Mrs. Price had said to Felicia in answer to her eager questions, "and by-and-by it will leave him weak and helpless as a baby almost. Poor Mr. Guy!"
"It is very terrible for him," thought the little girl pityingly. "I suppose he will be more or less ill all his life. Oh, dear, how sad that is! He has been very kind to me—kinder almost than anyone; I wish I could do something for him."
A rustling in the brushwood which bordered the lake on one side interrupted her train of thought at this point, and as she glanced in the direction from which the sound came, she saw a movement in the under-growth of high ferns and brambles.
"Lion! Lion!" she called, thinking the mastiff was coming in search of her; "is that you, old boy?"
It was not Lion, however, but another dog—a lean lurcher with a rabbit in its mouth—which emerged from the brushwood, and without taking any notice of Felicia, made off as fast as its long legs could carry it in the direction of the high road. It was gone in an instant, leaving Felicia amazed at the speed with which it had disappeared from sight. She reflected that the dog most probably belonged to the gipsies, who had doubtless trained it to do a little poaching on its own account, and she felt glad her grandfather had not seen it.
But if Mr. Renford had not seen the trespasser on his property, someone else had, for a few minutes later a tall man—clad in a much worn suit of brown corduroy velvet and carrying a gun—came crashing through the brushwood with a spaniel at his heels. The newcomer proved to be Brown—Mr. Renford's head gamekeeper. When he saw Felicia, he came up to her and spoke to her.
"Have you seen a strange dog about, miss?" he inquired.
"Yes," she replied; "a thin, long-legged dog, do you mean?"
"Yes, a lurcher—that's the one. Which way did it go, miss?"
Felicia pointed with her finger in the direction of the high road, and explained that the dog had had a rabbit in its mouth, hearing which Brown grew quite excited and red with indignation.
"I caught sight of it behind the elms," he said, "and followed it, but it was too quick for me. I saw it was carrying something. If I'd been within gun shot it should not have got away like that."
"Oh, surely you would not have shot it?" cried Felicia, horrified at the thought. "Perhaps the poor thing was hungry," she suggested; "it looked half-starved."
"Those sort of dogs always have a starved look with them; it's the breed of them," Brown said carelessly. "Depend upon it, that lurcher belongs to one of the gipsies who are encamped on the common; it must be a bold poacher to venture as near the house as this. It'll be wanting a duck next, I shouldn't wonder."
"Oh, I hope not! What would have happened, do you imagine, Brown, if Lion had been here and encountered the lurcher?"
"There would have been a fight, most likely, and if so, Lion would certainly have killed the other."
"Oh, then I am thankful he was not here!" the little girl exclaimed shudderingly.
"I'm sorry to hear Mr. Guy is so ill to-day," remarked Brown with a change of tone, his somewhat harsh voice softening; "I suppose the master is with him, miss?"
Then, after Felicia had replied in the affirmative and explained that her grandfather had not left her uncle's room that day, he continued: "Ah, Mr. Renford was always a devoted father, though strict with his children, and Mr. Guy's affliction has been a terrible trial to him. You see, he wasn't born deformed; it came about by his nurse's carelessness. That makes it all the more sad, to my mind." And touching his hat respectfully, Brown moved away.
Felicia walked slowly back to the house, her mind now fully occupied with thoughts of the gipsies. She had continued to keep her visit to the common a secret from her grandfather, though on several occasions she had longed to tell him about it, for it weighed heavily on her conscience; but he had appeared so prejudiced against the gipsies, and Doris had succeeded in making her so fearful, that her courage had always failed her when it had come to the point of speaking out. Now, as she entered the house, she met Mr. Renford in the hall, and followed him into the dining-room to inquire for her uncle.
"He is resting, I am thankful to say," he told her, as he threw himself into an easy-chair, looking very weary himself; "the pain ceased about half-an-hour ago, and now he is trying to sleep."
"I am so glad he is better, grandfather," said Felicia earnestly, "for your sake too. It must be dreadful to watch him suffer and not be able to do anything for him—except pray for him."
"Ah! You have been doing that—eh?" He looked pleased and touched. "Where have you been all the afternoon, child? I thought perhaps you would have gone to the Vicarage with your cousins."
"No; Aunt Mary asked me to go there to tea and to church with them afterwards. She invited me when she came to inquire for Uncle Guy after morning service, but I didn't want to go, and she said I could do as I pleased. I have been watching the ducks and the swans on the lake, and the only person I've seen to speak to this afternoon was Brown."
She explained about the long-legged dog, whilst a frown of annoyance gathered on her grandfather's brow.
"Brown said he would have shot it if he had been able to," she said distressfully; "oh, you wouldn't like him to do that, would you? It was such a poor, thin creature!"
"Brown does not like poachers whether they are men or dogs, so I do not wonder that he appeared vexed; but I should not like him to shoot the lurcher, for I saw just such an animal as you have described playing with a couple of gipsy children on the common yesterday; it was evidently a great pet. No, I should not like it to be shot, bold poacher though it must be. I will tell Brown so."
"Oh, grandfather, that is kind of you!" Felicia cried, her face brightening; "you have so many rabbits that you can well spare a few, can't you?" she asked ingenuously.
"That is not the point," Mr. Renford replied, with an amused laugh. "Are you going to side with the poachers against me?"
"No, indeed, grandfather."
She had been standing by the side of his chair as they had conversed, and now he put his arm around her and drew her nearer. His manner was so affectionate, and he looked so indulgent and kind that she was on the brink of taking him into her confidence anent her visit to the gipsy encampment, when Mrs. Price came to the door with the intelligence that Mr. Guy felt sufficiently well to speak to Miss Felicia and would like to see her.
The little girl, accordingly, went to her uncle at once, and though she was much shocked at the sight of his countenance, which was drawn and pallid from recent suffering, she hid her dismay, and restrained the exclamation which rose to her lips, and bending over the bed pressed her soft lips to his forehead.
"Well, little ditch flower," he said, with an effort to speak playfully, but his voice sounded weak and exhausted.
"Oh, dear Uncle Guy, I am so glad you are better!" she murmured; "are you really quite out of pain?"
"Yes, really. At this moment I feel as though I haven't a nerve in my body. Sit down, Felicia—yes, on the edge of the bed where I can see you. What book is that in your hand?"
"My Bible. I brought it because I thought you might want me to read to you."
"Well, so I do—presently. Did you go to church this morning?"
"Yes, and sat in the Priory pew by myself. I thought of you all the time, Uncle Guy, and I prayed for you that God would help you bear your pain and, do you know, when Uncle Nathaniel was preaching, I believe he was thinking of you, because his sermon was about the man with the withered hand, whom Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, and—and isn't it nice and comforting to know that people—those who love you—are thinking and praying for you?"
"And do you mean to say there's a corner in your heart for such a cross-grained individual as myself?" he inquired.
"Of course there is, Uncle Guy."
By-and-by he declared himself ready to listen to some reading, and asked for the chapter of the Bible which told of the man with the withered hand. He listened attentively, whilst she read the account of the miracle as told in Saint Matthew's gospel, but he would let her read no further.
"'And a great multitude followed Him, and He healed them all,'" he repeated, quoting her last words. "That will do, thank you. I don't want to hear any more."
She closed the book and waited to see if he intended resuming their previous conversation, but apparently he did not. For a long while there was silence, then the little girl spoke, asking some trifling question, but she received no answer, and saw that he had fallen asleep. She bent nearer to him to make certain such was the case, and he moved uneasily, muttering to himself, but the only words Felicia could make out were, "He healed them all." The tears rose to the little girl's eyes as she listened. Oh, if only a miracle could be performed for Uncle Guy! The cross he had to bear was a very heavy one, and her tender heart reproached her because often she had thought he had borne it less patiently than he might have done. She determined to be more than ever gentle with him in the future; and as she gazed at his pain-worn countenance and saw the ravages which ill-health had made, she realised to the full the deep grief it would be to her now to be parted from Uncle Guy.
"I believe he would miss me, too, if grandfather sent me away," she thought, "for he really seems to like me to be with him, and he never intends to be unkind, I know—he is not like Doris, who says cruel things on purpose to hurt. Oh, I hope nothing will happen to make grandfather send me to boarding-school now!"
When Mrs. Price peeped into the room a short while later, she was gratified to find her young master sleeping peacefully, and Felicia watching him, with an exceedingly thoughtful expression on her face, and a redness about her eyes which told of recent tears. Why should the child have been weeping, she wondered, when her uncle was undoubtedly better? The good woman was perplexed.
WHEN Felicia arrived at the Vicarage on the following morning, her aunt met her in the hall, and inquired for the latest news of the invalid.
"He is much better to-day," Felicia answered, with a ring of gladness in her voice; "I saw him for a few minutes after breakfast, and he said he had passed a most restful night without any pain, and he asked me to tell you that if you can spare the time to sit an hour or so with him, he will be delighted to have a chat with you."
"Oh, then he must be feeling much better!" Mrs. Pring exclaimed joyfully. "What do you say to the prospect of a week's holiday?" she continued, with a smile. "As a rule, Miss Barton goes home during August and the first half of September, but this year, on account of her mother's illness, she had to have her holiday earlier—it could not have been much of a holiday for her, poor girl—so I have suggested that she should take a week now, before the fine weather breaks up, and it has been arranged for her to go home this afternoon. So you children will have no lessons to-day, or for a week to come. Miss Barton is preparing for her journey; but Doris and Molly are, I believe, in the schoolroom. Run upstairs, my dear."
Felicia found her cousins in high spirits. They were engaged in packing their lesson books away in a cupboard, to get them out of sight as well as out of mind, as Molly explained. Both expressed pleasure on hearing their uncle was so much better, and then fell to discussing how the week's holiday was to be spent.
"I consider it is very hard lines we are not going to the sea-side this year," Doris observed with a sigh of regret; "it was most unfortunate that Miss Barton's mother should have been ill in June and upset our plans. It would have been so much nicer to have had our six weeks' holiday later on as usual. Father said something at breakfast about mother taking us to Weston-super-Mare for a week, but she did not like the thought of leaving home now Uncle Guy is ill. The doctor says he has been worse than he has ever been before."
"He looks dreadfully bad," Felicia said, shaking her head sadly.
"Have you seen him?" Molly inquired in surprise.
"Yes, last night, and for a few minutes this morning. Your mother is going to sit awhile with him by-and-by. He is quite out of pain now. Oh, here comes Miss Barton!"
The governess entered the room, looking very bright and happy, and immediately addressed herself to Felicia.
"I was wondering if you would like me to go to see your friend, Mrs. M'Cosh, whilst I am in Bristol, my dear," she said kindly; "don't you think she would like to hear how you are getting on?"
"Oh, I am sure she would!" Felicia cried. "How very good of you to think of it, Miss Barton."
"Not at all. What shall I tell her about you?"
"That I am very happy at the Priory, and that grandfather is very, very kind to me. And please say I shall never forget all she did for mother and me, and that I think of her and dear Mr. M'Cosh every day of my life."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, I should like you to tell her what a beautiful old house the Priory is, and about Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary, and—"
"Really, Felicia, there is no necessity that Mrs. M'Cosh should know all about us," Doris interposed impatiently in a displeased tone.
Felicia looked snubbed, and grew very red, whilst Miss Barton turned a reproachful glance upon her eldest pupil, who pretended not to notice it, and Molly spoke out in her usual impetuous way—
"Tell Mrs. M'Cosh all about me, Miss Barton, do, and be sure you say Felicia and I are the greatest friends."
"I will tell Mrs. M'Cosh everything in connection with Felicia that I think will interest her," Miss Barton said quietly; "and I should not have suggested calling on her, Doris, if I had not already mentioned the matter to your mother and heard that she approved of my doing so."
"I did not know that," Doris murmured in some confusion.
"No, my dear, how should you?" There was a brief pause, after which Miss Barton remarked in a lighter tone: "I hope you will all have a pleasant time in my absence, and make the most of this unexpected holiday, as I intend to do."
"We shall go to the station to see you off," declared Molly.
This the young folks accordingly did, accompanied by the Vicar, and when Miss Barton had gone, they all went for a most enjoyable ramble through the woods, now turning golden, and across stubbly fields from which the corn had lately been carried. Felicia, unaccustomed to walking in the country, was very tired when, at length, she parted from her uncle and her cousins at the entrance to the Priory grounds; but she had spent a most pleasant afternoon, and she hummed a little tune as she passed up the carriage drive.
The first person she encountered in the house was Mrs. Price, who informed her that Mr. Guy was stronger than he had been in the morning, and the doctor was very satisfied with his condition. The little girl had her tea in the housekeeper's room, and was going upstairs afterwards, when the sound of the study door opening caused her to pause. Glancing over the balusters she saw her grandfather crossing the hall with Price, and Brown, the gamekeeper. Price opened the front door, and Mr. Renford and Brown went out together.
"Is anything amiss, Price?" Felicia asked, her curiosity prompting her to put the question.
"Why, yes, miss," was the answer; "the gipsies have been up to mischief, and there's a fine to-do."
"What have they been doing?"
"Setting snares for rabbits, and allowing dogs in the preserves, disturbing the game. Brown's put out because the master won't let him shoot a lurcher he's seen continually; it seems it belongs to a gipsy called Reuben Smallridge, who owns one of the caravans on the common, and to-day it's commenced carrying off the ducks from the lake; one was missing this morning, and Brown says he's certain the lurcher has had it. I declare it's too bad. Mr. Renford's going to see the village policeman, to tell him to keep an eye on the doings of this man, Smallridge—he's a youngish man, with a wife and two children."
Felicia wondered if Reuben Smallridge was the father of the two children she had befriended—it seemed very likely—but she questioned Price no further. A short while later she went to visit her uncle, and found him expecting her.
"So you are to have a week's holiday, Mary has been telling me," he said, as she drew a chair to his bedside and sat down to talk to him. "Where have you been all the afternoon? Out in the sunshine, that I can see by your complexion."
"I have been for a long walk with Uncle Nathaniel, and Doris, and Molly. Have you wanted me, Uncle Guy? I'll stay with you all day to-morrow."
"I shall not permit that, though I have no doubt you would make an excellent nurse, you are so quiet in your movements, and yet I believe you are naturally a merry little soul."
"I believe I am," Felicia admitted with a soft laugh; "mother was, too, when she was well. Oh, you don't know what fun we used to have together sometimes; we were never dull. Mother used to say people ought to try to make the best of things and be happy, because if they did not it was as though they had no faith in God. When she was a girl she used to be very dissatisfied and unhappy, often—"
"Yes? Go on. Tell me some more about your mother. Why was she dissatisfied and unhappy?"
"Well, you see, mother never knew who she really was, and that used to trouble her."
"Did you ever hear the history of your mother's early days, Felicia?" he asked curiously.
"Oh, yes! It is such an interesting story. I never used to tire of listening to it."
"I wish you would tell it to me some day, will you?"
"Yes, indeed I will—to-morrow, if you like, Uncle Guy."
"Thank you; I should much like to hear it. I fear I shall not be strong enough to get up to-morrow. It is wearisome lying here on my back, and I get tired of reading, so if you will spare me an hour of your society during the afternoon, I shall be very glad. Your aunt will be here in the morning, and father's sure to spend awhile with me after breakfast. By the way, what sort of friends are you and Doris now?"
"Uncle Guy, how did you know—who told you—" Felicia stammered, flushing and looking confused. "We are not friends at all," she admitted dejectedly.
"I imagined not."
"I—I believe Doris rather despises me," the little girl said in a faltering voice, "and—and it makes me so angry to know it is because of—of mother. Doris doesn't say so, but I know, and she looks down on me because we lived in an attic—I am not ashamed of that, I hope I never shall be. Mother said I was to remember that if she was a 'nobody,' and not very wise—that is what she said—she tried to teach me to be a good girl and did the best she could. And she said God doesn't ask more than that. Oh, it hurts me to think anyone should—should—"
Felicia's voice faltered, and she could not finish her sentence. Glancing at her uncle's countenance, she saw it bore the traces of strong emotion. She knew she ought not to excite him, and for his sake she strove to restrain her tears.
"I'm very silly," she continued, as soon as she could speak, "and I know I ought not to be so angry with Doris, because she doesn't understand how dearly I loved mother; but you understand, you always have." And the look she gave him was full of confidence and affection.
"Because I loved my own mother dearly," he replied, much touched; "and yet I was often cross and unkind to her, and I can never think of her without a feeling of remorse. I might have let her see how dear she was to me, but I never did; I might have listened to her when she would have talked to me of—of things she loved to speak about but I would not. And now it is too late. Often I used to bring the tears to her eyes; but she was always patient with me, and never reproached me—never! I did not realise all she had been to me till she was gone, and now there is not anything I would not give to be able to look in her face for a moment."
"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, Uncle Guy. It's—it's agony. But you mustn't think of your mother with tears in her eyes, because, you know, God has wiped them away, and she's perfectly happy where she's gone."
"You are a rare little comforter, Felicia," he told her, a tender smile driving the look of sorrow and regret from his face.
"Am I?" she asked earnestly. "You would not like me to be sent away from the Priory, Uncle Guy?"
"No, child, certainly not. But who would think of sending you away? Not my father. We cannot part with our ditch flower now."
TRUE to her promise, the following afternoon Felicia repaired to her uncle's rooms. On entering the sitting-room, however, she paused undecidedly, for she heard her grandfather's voice in the bedroom beyond.
"I am grieved to hear you speak thus," Mr. Renford was saying, "but, at any rate, think it over, Guy, and let me have your decision by-and-by, will you?"
"I tell you, father, I have made up my mind and there will be no changing it," was the response, irritably spoken.
Felicia was turning to retrace her footsteps, fearful of intruding, when the bedroom door opened and her grandfather came into the sitting-room, looking much agitated.
"Don't run away, child," he said kindly; "your uncle is expecting you; he tells me you are going to sit with him this afternoon."
"Yes, grandfather."
"That's right." He regarded her undecidedly for a moment, then added in a lower tone: "I want him to see another doctor—a specialist I've been bearing a great deal of lately—but he says he will not. Try if you cannot persuade him to change his mind." And without another word he went out of the room.
Felicia listened to his retreating footsteps in the corridor, then, as the sound of them died away, she entered her uncle's bedroom, and approached the bed.
She saw at a glance that the invalid was disturbed and in anything but a good-humour. The lines of ill-temper on either side of his mouth seemed more marked than usual, and there was a deep frown between his brows. In answer to her solicitous inquiries as to his health, he answered her somewhat testily—
"Better? Oh, yes. If I wasn't I should be dead by this time, I verily believe. I couldn't have lived to bear that pain much longer. There, child, don't look so grieved. I'm not suffering now, you know. Sit down where I can see you. That's right. Father's been here, worrying me to consent to see another doctor, but what's the good when—"
"It might be some good, Uncle Guy," Felicia broke in eagerly; "you cannot tell it would not; and grandfather wishes it so much."
"No doctor can straighten my back, child," he reminded her with a ring of bitterness in his voice.
"N—o—o," she answered reluctantly; "I suppose not. But, perhaps this doctor, if he is very clever, could give you some medicine to make you suffer less. If you could be spared pain, think what happiness that would be to grandfather—to us all."
"I am certain no doctor can do anything for me, and so I have told my father, and he quite understands I cannot be worried by a stranger. But there is no necessity for you and I to go into the matter, Felicia. Let us speak of something else. Have you been to the Vicarage to-day?"
"No; but Molly called me to join her in a walk this morning. We took Lion with us and went into the woods. The nuts are ripening, and there are such a quantity of blackberries. Do you know, I never saw blackberries growing before this year? Molly could hardly believe it. We met such a funny old man in the woods—Harry Budd, Molly called him; she spoke to him. Do you know him, Uncle Guy?"
"Oh, yes! He was a notorious poacher in years gone by."
"Was he?" exclaimed Felicia. "I should never have guessed that by the way he talked. Something was said about the gipsies, and he called them 'a thieving set.' How could he do that when he has been a poacher himself?"
"It is difficult to understand. He is a sly old fellow, I believe—judging from what I have heard my father say of him. But you were going to tell me about your mother, Felicia."
"Yes," she responded. She regarded him earnestly for a moment, then glanced away. "Do you really want to hear about her, Uncle Guy?" she questioned.
"Certainly. Did I not say so last night?"
"Yes. It—it would have been easier for me to have told you last night," she admitted.
"Why?"
"Because you were so gentle and kind then, and now you look so cross; and—and I heard you speaking sharply to grandfather just now; I wish you wouldn't, Uncle Guy, it makes him very sad."
"Poor father!" he sighed, the expression of his countenance softening. "As I told you before, Felicia, I am a great disappointment to him. If I really thought this specialist he wishes me to consult could do me the least good I would certainly see him, but I know mine is a hopeless case."
"Do see him, if only to please grandfather," pleaded Felicia in a coaxing tone.
"But I so dislike strangers—"
He paused undecidedly. The little girl was wise enough not to press the matter further; instead, she said—
"Do you want to hear about mother from the beginning—I mean from the time she was a tiny baby?"
"Certainly," he replied. "Tell the tale as you like, child; you will not fail to interest me."
"Well, the first place mother remembered was a large underground kitchen in a London lodging-house, and the first person she remembered was a little, old lady called Miss de Musset, who was always cooking at a great stove. Mother used to call Miss de Musset 'aunt,' but she was not related to her really, though she never knew that till she was a big girl. Mother was a foundling; those she belonged to deserted her and left her on the backdoor step of Miss de Musset's house, a little baby of about three months old, wrapped up in an old faded shawl, and Miss de Musset took her in and sent for the police, who wanted to carry her off to the workhouse, because they said it was most improbable her parents would be found, and they never were, you know."
"So Miss de Musset adopted your mother?"
"Yes. Years afterwards she told mother she had a feeling that God meant her to do it, and I think very likely He did, don't you? Well," Felicia continued, as her uncle made no response, "mother grew up with Miss de Musset, who was wonderfully kind and did all she could for her. Miss de Musset was a real lady, though she kept a lodging-house. Her father had been a French teacher, but her grandfather had been a Huguenot gentleman in France—"
"Ah!" exclaimed the invalid, a gleam of comprehension crossing his face which had worn a slightly puzzled expression, "he was an émigré, no doubt, who had been driven from his native country on account of his religious and political opinions. I understand. Go on, Felicia."
"Miss de Musset had very few acquaintances, but there was an old gentleman who used to come and see her called Monsieur Du Bellay; he would bring a violin with him which he used to play in the kitchen whilst she was preparing her lodgers' dinners. When mother was quite a little girl he taught her the violin, and she used to practise in the kitchen, and they all used to be very merry together."
"I can picture the scene."
"Always on Sundays, Miss de Musset would take mother to church," the little girl proceeded, "and generally they attended a French Protestant church, which I don't suppose you ever heard of, Uncle Guy. Miss de Musset used to love the service there, because it was all in French, and mother said the congregation was always very reverent. Most of those who worshipped there were working people whose ancestors had suffered for the sake of their religion in France, because they had been Huguenots. Often Monsieur Du Bellay would go to the French Protestant church, too, and then he would go home to supper with Miss de Musset and mother. He earned his living by teaching music and singing, and it was he who trained mother's voice."
"Miss de Musset had become an old woman by the time mother had grown up, and mother was so glad to be able to earn money, because the lodging-house did not pay so well as it had. Then Miss de Musset died, and soon after that mother married father, who had been one of Miss de Musset's lodgers, as you know, Uncle Guy. At first she was very happy, but afterwards she thought she had done wrong in marrying, because grandfather was so angry; he would not let father bring mother here or have anything to do with her, and she was very unhappy, though she loved father dearly—so dearly that when he died she thought her heart would break. Then grandfather wanted to take me away from her—oh, I know now he wouldn't have done it against her will!—and she determined she would never give me up, but work for me, and—and she did. I have often heard her say that if she was ever troubled or depressed, she had only to think of a verse in the Twenty-seventh Psalm to be quite comforted—'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' It had been so true in her case, you know. God had found her a friend when she had been a poor little deserted baby, and she always had faith that He would do everything for the best."
"What became of the old Frenchman—Monsieur Du Bellay?"
"He is dead now. Oh, I remember him so well! He was very tall, with white hair, and such kind, dark eyes; he had rather a grave way of talking, and sometimes he looked very sad. I liked him so much, he was so kind. When he died he left mother all the money he had."
"It was not much, I conclude?"
"No, not quite twenty pounds after the expenses of his illness and funeral had been paid. Mother felt his death dreadfully, and so did I. I shall always remember the night he died. Mother took me to see him; he was sitting in an easy-chair by the fire in his bedroom, and I knelt down by his side, and he put both his hands on my head and said: 'The Lord bless thee and keep thee, little one'—and an hour after we had gone he died."
"You have had some sad partings in your life, Felicia," her uncle said gently.
Felicia nodded. There were tears in her blue eyes, but the expression of her face was not altogether a sorrowful one, for she was thinking of the land that is very far off, and whilst her uncle's mind dwelt on the sadness of earthly life, her faith had carried her beyond this world into the presence of the King in His beauty; for hers was the sure and certain hope of everlasting life.
"CHILDREN, here comes your grandfather," said Mrs. Pring, a welcoming smile lighting up her pleasant face, as, from her seat under a big apple tree in the kitchen garden, where she and her little daughters were passing the afternoon, she lifted her eyes from the tea-cups—set on the small table at her side—into which she was pouring tea from a pretty china teapot, and saw Mr. Renford's approaching figure.
"Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Molly. "He's just in time for a cup of tea." She ran to meet her grandfather, and clinging affectionately to his arm, led him under the shade of the apple tree, where she placed him by her mother's side. "Why didn't you bring Felicia with you?" she inquired.
"I had no intention of coming here when I left home; besides, Felicia is spending the afternoon with Guy," he returned. "How very comfortable this is!"
"Yes," agreed his daughter; "so we determined we would have tea out-of-doors. We cannot expect this fine weather to continue much longer, but I hope it will last whilst Miss Barton is away."
"Grandfather, do you know that Miss Barton is going to call on Felicia's friend, Mrs. M'Cosh, whilst she is in Bristol?" asked Molly.
"No. Is that so?"
"Yes," assented Mrs. Pring. "It was Miss Barton's own idea, but I furthered it. I—I hope you do not mind?" she questioned somewhat falteringly, as she noticed the gravity of her father's face.
"No, I do not mind. I suppose it is only natural, under the circumstances, that Felicia should be attached to the woman; but—well, to put it plainly, has it ever occurred to you that Felicia has a decided leaning towards the society of—of people of the lower classes?"
Mrs. Pring shook her head, looking exceedingly puzzled, whilst Doris and Molly observed their grandfather with wondering eyes.
"I have reason to believe that such is the case, however," Mr. Renford continued. Then, turning to Molly, he inquired, "Do you remember my forbidding Felicia to go near the common on account of the gipsies being there?"
"Yes, grandfather."
"She has disobeyed me, I find; not only has she been to the common, but she has made friends with the gipsies—knowing them to be thieves, for it has been no secret to her how they have robbed me of rabbits and game."
"Oh, it can't be true!" Molly cried, whilst Doris kept silence and listened to the conversation with a fast beating heart.
"There must be some mistake, father," Mrs. Pring was commencing, when Mr. Renford interrupted her somewhat impatiently—
"My dear Mary, I know what I am talking about, and I do not think there is any mistake. But I will explain and you will be able to judge for yourself. I was crossing the common half-an-hour ago when a young gipsy woman, with a baby in her arms, came out of a caravan and asked me to buy a basket. I refused, and was walking on when she said, 'Sure, gentleman, the pretty little lady, your grand-daughter, would like it, and you shall have it cheap for her sake.' 'Why for her sake?' I asked, rather amused at her wheedling tone. 'Because she's been friendly to the poor gipsies,' was the answer I received, and then she went on to speak of Felicia having carried the baby in her arms and talked so kindly to her little daughter. 'What!' I exclaimed, 'do you mean to tell me she has been here?' 'Yes, certainly,' the woman answered, and I am sure she spoke in all sincerity. 'Did she not tell you, sir?' she asked. 'No,' I replied. She looked quite distressed at that, and begged me not to be angry, and she actually wanted to make me a present of the basket she had offered to sell a few minutes previously. 'Take it and give it to the sweet little lady,' she said, 'and never be angry with her because she has a kind heart.' Of course, I would not have the basket, but I gave the woman a shilling, and came on here to tell you what she had said. What could have taken Felicia to the common except a hankering for low society?"
"I don't believe it's true!" Molly cried hotly. "Felicia would not make friends with people she knew to be dishonest; and I am certain she would not disobey you like that, grandfather."
"Then you never saw her speak to the gipsies, Molly?" asked Mr. Renford.
"Never!"
Doris expected to be questioned next, but her grandfather, knowing she was less friendly with Felicia than was her sister, did not do so, and consequently she kept silence. It would have been easy to have set the matter straight by explaining how her cousin had encountered the gipsy children, and the cause of her subsequent visit to the common, but she decided she would not. She saw no reason why she should interfere. Felicia could explain for herself.
"Nevertheless, I am persuaded the gipsy woman spoke the truth," Mr. Renford said decidedly; "I shall speak to Felicia on the subject as soon as I get home. The thought that the child has wilfully disobeyed me is an unpleasant one. I suppose I must make allowances for her, however, for the circumstances of her life have been peculiar, but she seemed so—so adaptable. It is hard to believe she would set me at defiance like that."
"I don't believe she has!" Molly declared. "Ask her, grandfather, and she will tell you."
"I have always considered her truthful," Mrs. Pring said uneasily; "of course we have not known her a great while, but we have never detected anything false or deceitful about her. Don't be certain there is not a mistake, father."
"I will not, Mary," he assured her; "I suppose it would be too much to expect that a ditch flower could altogether escape the mud," he added with rather a sarcastic smile.
Mrs. Pring sighed. She felt greatly troubled and wished her husband was there. But the Vicar had gone to visit a sick parishioner and did not come home till long after his father-in-law had gone.
When Mr. Renford reached the Priory, an hour before his dinner-time, he went immediately to his study, and sent for Felicia. Not dreaming anything was amiss, the little girl, who had only left her uncle a short while previously, came running downstairs and into her grandfather's presence with a smiling face and a happy light in her eyes. Without waiting to hear why he had summoned her, she began at once—
"Oh, grandfather, such good news for you! I know you'll be glad! Uncle Guy has consented to see the doctor you wish him to consult, and he says you may send for him as soon as you like."
"Indeed I am glad to hear this," Mr. Renford replied, looking pleased and surprised. "Is this your doing, Felicia?"
"I asked him to see the doctor for your sake, grandfather, and by-and-by he consented to do so. Oh, how I wish something could be done to make him better, though I am afraid he can never be quite well, can he?"
Mr. Renford gravely scrutinised the pretty, anxious face which was raised to his, and shook his head.
"I am afraid not," he answered. "Have you spent all the afternoon with him, Felicia?"
"Yes, grandfather. I don't think I've tired him; he says I've done him good."
"That's well." Mr. Renford laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes as he asked without any preamble: "Have you had anything to do with the gipsies on the common?"
"I—I—" stammered the little girl, turning suddenly white, whilst a scared expression settled on her face; "I—I ought to have told—"
"Answer me 'yes' or no,'" he said sternly; "don't try to prevaricate. I repeat my question. Have you had anything to do with the gipsies on the common?"
"Yes, grandfather, I—"
"Enough! You have disobeyed me." He pushed her from him angrily and pointed to the door. "Go!" he commanded.
She moved away from him, her legs shaking, a choking sensation in her throat.
"Wait a moment," he said as she reached the door. Then, as she paused, he asked in a gentler tone: "Did you forget that I had told you not to go near the common?"
"No, grandfather, I remembered; but—oh, do let me explain! I am not so much to blame as you think. Oh, I ought to have told you, I know, but I was afraid you—you—"
She stopped her broken confession, unable to proceed further, and burst into tears, looking the picture of guilt and distress.
"I have been too indulgent to you," Mr. Renford said coldly, "and you have presumed on my kindness to disobey me. You need a tighter rein, I perceive, and you shall have it. I must—"