The old man was perplexed. He was also weakened by his attack of cold.
“Do you think that I sent him away, Felicia?” he asked.
Felicia was feminine enough to perceive his admission. She was sure of her guess now. Katherine was at the bottom of the matter. The proceedings, however, struck her as particularly futile. As they were, actually, on the real grounds. She took the empty cup from his hands, smoothed his pillow deftly, and as he laid his head back, she bent over him and whispered,—“He went away to please you—and he will return to please you. Let me telegraph to him.”
“But you—my dear child—how could you bear—?”
“I?” asked Felicia in surprise. “What have I to do with it?”
“Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” she added after a moment's silence. “You must not remember any foolish things I told you once—I think I must have been a child then. I am ashamed of them now. I have grown older,”—she struggled bravely—“and I have got over those silly feelings. I would not wish to be anything more than friends—ever—so it would make no difference to me, if he were here—except as a friend.”
The old man reached out his thin hand, took hers, and laid it against his cheek.
“Then there was no need at all of his going away, since you knew?”
Felicia gave a little involuntary cry, and twitched her hand, as the revelation burst upon her. The blood flooded her cheeks and sang in her ears. The former shame was nothing to this new one.
“He went away because he saw that I cared for him?” she asked chokingly.