Felicia looked at the tree with great interest, and ventured to put a few questions about her father's childhood, all of which Mr. Renford evidently took pleasure in answering. It was evident he had been deeply attached to his elder son. By-and-by Felicia asked him, rather timidly, if he had any objection to her writing to Mrs. M'Cosh.
"She was very kind to me," the little girl said earnestly, "and though I didn't promise to write, I feel sure she would like to hear from me, and I should like to tell her how I am getting on, and about Aunt Mary and my cousins, and—and—everyone."
"Write to her by all means," he responded heartily; "I do not wish you to appear ungrateful, and you might get Mrs. Price to pack a hamper with a nice chicken, and some butter, and eggs, and cream—and send her as a little present. People in town always welcome a hamper from the country. It is to be sent in your name, remember that."
"Oh, grandfather, thank you! How good of you! Mrs. M'Cosh will be delighted."
The tone of Felicia's voice spoke her pleasure. She caught Mr. Renford's hand and squeezed it gratefully; then, with an abrupt revulsion of feeling, she burst into tears.
"What is it?" her grandfather asked in astonishment. "Why are you crying, my dear?"
"It—it is very foolish of me," sobbed Felicia, "but I was thinking—oh, don't be angry!—how I wished mother was living, and—and I was sending a hamper to her. It's dreadful to remember I can never do anything for her more, and—and there was so little I could do for her when she was alive."
"But that little you did, child," Mr. Renford reminded her in a tone which showed he was inexpressibly touched. "Mrs. M'Cosh told me you were the greatest comfort your mother had. I wish she had not hidden herself from me, and I wish—but it's useless regretting the past. I may have been a hard man—God forgive me if I have—but I was certainly never so heartless as your mother thought. Maybe I misjudged her, and certainly she misjudged me. But come, my dear, the dew is falling and we must go indoors. Come, Lion."
The dog followed them obediently into the house. His tail hung between his legs, and his manner was depressed as though he was conscious—as no doubt was the case—that he had been unjustly served; and there was a very wistful expression in his eyes which appealed to Felicia's tender heart. The greater part of her indignation against her uncle was on poor Lion's account.