"Is it morning now?" Felicia asked.
"Yes—nearly daybreak,"
"And you have been up with me all night, Aunt Mary?"
"Yes, my dear; there has been no sleep for anyone in the house. But I want you to rest now, and then I shall get a nap on the sofa myself. Take this, and try to sleep."
Felicia drank the milk her aunt offered her, and five minutes later she was in a deep sleep. The next day she was kept in bed, but in the afternoon she was allowed to see her grandfather.
"Why did you mistrust me, child?" he asked reproachfully, after he had inquired how she was, and had been satisfied with her answer that she was quite well, and would be about again on the morrow. "What made you think I should blame you for your impulsive kindness to those gipsy children? I am glad to find there was a good cause for your disobedience, but you should have told me, my dear."
"Yes, I know I ought," she faltered; "but I was so afraid that—that you would send me away from the Priory. I did not want to go away to be parted from Uncle Guy, and—and—" she paused in confusion.
"I admit I did once think of sending you to boarding-school—though I do not know who can have told you so—but certainly not of late. Guy would miss you, and I, too, should find the Priory lonely now without our ditch flower."
"Oh, how I love to hear you say that!" Felicia exclaimed happily; "I don't believe, grandfather, I shall ever be afraid to tell you anything again."
The following day Felicia arose at her usual time, and directly after breakfast paid a visit to her uncle. He received her with a warmth of affection which surprised and touched her.