"I have been very happy to-day," admitted Felicia; "and I never thought I could be happy again."
He muttered something under his breath about the young having few lasting griefs, but Felicia heard the words, and her face clouded immediately. She took a chair near his sofa, the smile fading from her lips, the light dying out of her blue eyes. For a few minutes there was silence between them.
"You have not told me the cause of your happiness," he said at length.
"No," she answered in a reserved tone; "I don't think I can. I don't think I can speak of it to you."
"Why not?" he demanded sharply.
"Because—because it's to do with my mother, and perhaps you would not understand."
"If not, no harm would be done by your having told me, I suppose?"
"N—o—o," she allowed.
Then, in slightly faltering accents, she spoke to him of the gift of the white lilies, and tried to explain what it had meant to her mother, whilst he listened with an interest which increased when he heard that it had been Miss Barton who had performed the kindly act which had left such a deep, tender impression on his little niece's mind.
"What a strange coincidence!" he exclaimed. "And she did not recognise you, you say?"