"No," the latter answered, "her mother said particularly that she was to go—that her grandparents might see her."
"But I have no money," Felicia said with a painful blush.
"Oh, we can manage that!" Mr. M'Cosh told her reassuringly. "Your journey money will be very little. N— is only an hour's ride by train from Bristol, it's on the main line."
"But—but you have spent so much money on me already," murmured the little girl distressfully, "on me and—her! Oh, don't think I don't realise all you've done for us! I know you've paid for the funeral, and my new black frock and hat, and—and there's nothing I can do for you in return! I owe you so much—so much!"
"Never mind that," said Mr. M'Cosh earnestly, "we've been glad to help." He coughed as though there was something in his throat, then continued: "The missus and I had a little girl ourselves once, my dear; she didn't stay with us very long, and we thought it was cruelly hard God should take her away. When we heard the earth fall on her little coffin, we felt—well, much as you felt this afternoon, I expect—as though our hearts would never cease aching, as though we could never be happy again because of our loss; but as time went on, we were glad to know our child was safe with God. If she had lived, she would have been about your age, and that's made us take to you; isn't that so?" he asked, turning to his wife, who nodded assent.
This was the first occasion on which Felicia had ever heard mention made of the dead child, and she was very touched. Sore-hearted herself, she could enter into the sorrow of these good people, and sympathise with them. She had lost her mother; they had lost their child.
The next day she paid a farewell visit to the home which had been hers and her mother's for the past two years. Already it had been re-let and the new tenant was to come into residence that night. The attic was scrupulously clean, for Mrs. M'Cosh had thoroughly scrubbed the floor and rubbed the few pieces of furniture which belonged to the owner of the house.
Poor Felicia flung herself down beside the empty bed and wept heart-brokenly; then, exhausted by the violence of her grief, she crept to the window and looked out on the familiar view. It almost seemed as though she must hear her mother's voice addressing her presently. The last week appeared so unreal—like a hideous dream, the final scene of which had been enacted yesterday afternoon. Felicia had never attended a funeral before her mother's, and now as she stood by the open window, her aching eyes raised above the roofs and chimney tops to the wide expanse of sky overhead, she recalled the opening words of the Service of the previous day. And as she repeated them softly to herself they fell like healing balm upon her heart—
"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.'"
Her mother had believed, of that she was certain, therefore she need have no fears for her. And for herself—oh, she must not be a coward, she must trust her future to God's hands! She looked around the little attic, and wondered if she would ever see it again. She could picture her mother seated at the round table working the sewing machine even better than she could picture her on the bed in the corner. She was glad of that, for she would far rather think of her well than ill. How bright and cheerful she had been in her days of health, and how bravely she had faced sickness and death. What was that verse she had repeated to her one day when she, Felicia, had been inclined to grumble? Ah, she remembered! And she hoped she might never forget.