"Your grandfather fetched you, Felicia. Don't excite yourself. You lost your way in the storm, and a gipsy found you and sheltered you in his caravan, leaving you in the care of his wife whilst he came here with the news of what had become of you. You had knocked your head somehow—there is a bruise on your forehead—and were unconscious, so you know nothing about the drive home in the carriage. Lie still now and rest."
"Is grandfather very angry?" questioned Felicia.
"Not angry, but disappointed in you."
"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary, let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"
"Very well—if it will make you happier."
"Oh, it will, it will!" And in faltering tones Felicia told how she had befriended the gipsy children, refraining, however, from mentioning that Doris knew anything about the matter.
Mrs. Pring's countenance brightened as she listened, and when Felicia had finished her tale she kissed her affectionately.
"But why did you not tell my father at the time?" she very naturally inquired; "that would have been the straightforward course to have taken." Then, as the little girl made no response, she suggested kindly: "I will tell him how it happened that you disobeyed him, shall I?"
"Oh, Aunt Mary, will you?"
"Certainly, my dear. You should have been frank with him, and you would not have found him unreasonable. It is not to be wondered at that he was very angry when he thought you had determinedly laid yourself out to disobey him. You were a very foolish little girl to run off to the woods last evening, but I suppose you acted thoughtlessly. You gave us all a very anxious time."