"Because I loved my own mother dearly," he replied, much touched; "and yet I was often cross and unkind to her, and I can never think of her without a feeling of remorse. I might have let her see how dear she was to me, but I never did; I might have listened to her when she would have talked to me of—of things she loved to speak about but I would not. And now it is too late. Often I used to bring the tears to her eyes; but she was always patient with me, and never reproached me—never! I did not realise all she had been to me till she was gone, and now there is not anything I would not give to be able to look in her face for a moment."
"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, Uncle Guy. It's—it's agony. But you mustn't think of your mother with tears in her eyes, because, you know, God has wiped them away, and she's perfectly happy where she's gone."
"You are a rare little comforter, Felicia," he told her, a tender smile driving the look of sorrow and regret from his face.
"Am I?" she asked earnestly. "You would not like me to be sent away from the Priory, Uncle Guy?"
"No, child, certainly not. But who would think of sending you away? Not my father. We cannot part with our ditch flower now."
[CHAPTER XIX]
Felicia's Story
TRUE to her promise, the following afternoon Felicia repaired to her uncle's rooms. On entering the sitting-room, however, she paused undecidedly, for she heard her grandfather's voice in the bedroom beyond.
"I am grieved to hear you speak thus," Mr. Renford was saying, "but, at any rate, think it over, Guy, and let me have your decision by-and-by, will you?"
"I tell you, father, I have made up my mind and there will be no changing it," was the response, irritably spoken.