A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile, it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.
"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment! Oh, how pleased mother will be!"
On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—
"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"
Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.
"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"
"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt.
"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put my house in order, so to speak—"
"Mother!"