"I cannot," replied Felicia, almost in tears, for she was alarmed to see the lines around his mouth had hardened, and the expression of his face had become stern; "I cannot tell my business to any one but Mr. Renford," she declared firmly.
"Well, here he is. I am he—Julius Renford, the master of the Priory. Why, what's the matter with you? You're shaking like an aspen leaf."
Felicia did not answer. A look of utter amazement had crept over her countenance, for her grandfather was so different from the mental picture she had formed of him. She had fancied he would be older—as old as the white-haired man with the bright, brown eyes who had interviewed her at the Priory—and this alert, vigorous gentleman upset all her preconceived ideas. She did not for a moment doubt he spoke the truth, however, for his countenance was honest and open as the day.
"Come, come," he said impatiently, "what do you want of me? First of all, tell me your name."
"It is Felicia—Felicia Renford," she informed him in faltering accents.
"What!" His clasp on her shoulder tightened, and his fine colour paled slightly, whilst he subjected her face to a keen scrutiny which Felicia bore with what fortitude she could muster for the occasion. "Do you mean to say you are the daughter of my son John?"
"Yes," she replied chokingly.
"And your mother is dead, I think you told me?" Again she assented.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, and Felicia's sensitive ears heard the ejaculation was one of relief. "Where are your proofs?" he asked, "and who sent you here?"
"My mother. She—"