"YOU won't be able to see much longer, Felicia, and I'm sure you're trying your eyes dreadfully, now. Put up your work, child. Perhaps to-morrow I shall be strong enough to help a bit."

Felicia, a little girl of about twelve years old, who sat industriously working a sewing machine at a round table close to the window, finished running together the two lengths of print she was in the midst of joining, and then, dropping her hands into her lap with a gesture expressive of weariness, looked at her mother with a smile as she exclaimed in a tone of relief—

"There! I've finished for to-night. I've not done such a bad day's work after all."

"I'm glad to hear that; and I'm very glad you've finished, for the noise of the machine does make my head ache so badly, it gets on my nerves, so that even in the night I hear the 'whirr-whirr-whirr'—it won't let me sleep."

"Poor mother!"

The little girl's voice was full of intense sadness and regret, as her soft, blue eyes anxiously scanned the pallid countenance of her mother, who lay—worn almost to a shadow—on the bed which occupied one corner of the room. In this attic of a house let in tenements, situated in a side street in the heart of the city of Bristol, Mrs. Renford and her little daughter had lived for the past two years, supported by the earnings of the former as a blouse and apron maker.

A few days previously, Mrs. Renford, who had been ailing for some time, had fallen ill, and much to Felicia's alarm did not appear to be getting better, though she was lying in bed—to pick up her strength, she herself said. Felicia had desired to call in the parish doctor, but her mother had strenuously opposed this suggestion, declaring every day she would be stronger on the morrow; meanwhile, work had to be done to supply money for daily bread, and the little girl was obliged to do it, labouring from daybreak to dusk at the sewing machine. How thankful she was that it was summer! Though it was intensely hot in their attic home, that was better than having to suffer cold, as they certainly would have done had it been winter, for where would the money have come from to purchase coals?

"It's time I saw about supper," Felicia observed after a brief silence, during which she had succeeded in mastering a strong inclination to cry, for she was, in truth, very weary, and her right arm and hand ached with turning the handle of the machine. "I wish I had something nice to tempt your appetite, mother," she proceeded, as she went to a cupboard and produced some bread and a small slice of butter, "you have taken hardly anything to-day."

"I don't want anything to eat, my dear," was the reply, "but I could enjoy a cup of tea."

"And you shall have it!" the little girl declared.

"But you've no hot water—"

"I can easily get some from Mrs. M'Cosh; she's sure to have her kettle boiling, for she always cooks a supper for her husband, I don't mind asking her a favour at all."

Having measured the tea into a brown earthenware teapot, Felicia nodded encouragingly to her mother and left the attic, proceeding downstairs to the second floor, where she rapped gently upon a closed door with her knuckles.

"Come in," said a deep, gruff voice, which sounded like a man's, but was, in reality, a woman's. Felicia opened the door and entered the room—a comfortably furnished kitchen-sitting-room it was. Before the fireplace stood Mrs. M'Cosh, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a broad, red face, which usually wore a somewhat grim expression. A woman of few words was Mrs. M'Cosh, but those words were generally much to the point. She was frying liver and bacon for her husband's supper, giving her best attention to the work in hand.

"Please, Mrs. M'Cosh," said Felicia, "could you oblige me with a little boiling water? Mother fancies a cup of tea to-night."

"Help yourself, child," was the response; "but, first, put your teapot on the stove to warm."

Felicia did so, whilst she watched Mrs. M'Cosh turn the liver in the pan. How delicious it smelt! Poor Felicia, she had had nothing to eat but bread thinly spread with butter that day.

"Mother better?" inquired Mrs. M'Cosh, glancing furtively at her visitor.

Felicia shook her head mournfully, the tears rising to her blue eyes, a choking lump in her throat.

"No appetite, I suppose?" continued her interrogator, "and little enough to eat anyway. Humph! Blouse-making is badly paid—far better to scrub for a living."

"Mother cannot scrub," said Felicia hastily; "she is not strong enough for such hard work as that."

"Not brought up to it, I take it."

Mrs. M'Cosh had placed the frying-pan on one side, and was warming a vegetable dish now; and as the teapot was hot, Felicia put the boiling water to the tea. "Let it draw on the stove for a minute," advised Mrs. M'Cosh, as she proceeded to slip several slices of liver and bacon into the vegetable dish. "There now, your mother will have a good cup of tea, and perhaps she will fancy a bit of my 'fry' for her supper," she added, as she placed the cover on the vegetable dish and put it with the teapot on a tray which she thrust into the little girl's hands.

"Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh!" gasped Felicia, quite overcome with astonishment and gratitude, "how can I thank you?"

"Don't, child. Liver's cheap, and there's plenty left for my husband. There, don't stop talking, but go to your mother. You can return the dish to-morrow."

She pushed the little girl out of the room and shut the door upon her. With flushed cheeks and eyes shining with gladness, Felicia climbed the stairs, carrying the tray very carefully.

"See, mother, what Mrs. M'Cosh has given me!" she exclaimed excitedly when she reached the attic. "Such a beautiful supper! Oh, isn't it kind of her?"

"It is, indeed," the sick woman agreed, raising herself on her elbow, and looking longingly at the covered dish. "What is it? It smells delicious."

"Doesn't it? It's fried liver and bacon. Do you think you can eat some?"

The invalid thought she could, and, posted up in bed, she drank her tea, which cheered and refreshed her greatly, and ate a little of the "fry." But her appetite was poor, and by far the larger half of Mrs. M'Cosh's present fell to the share of Felicia, who made an excellent supper.

"What a dear good soul Mrs. M'Cosh is," said the little girl gratefully; "and yet I used to be rather afraid of her—because she has such a blunt way of speaking, and such a sharp way of looking at one, I suppose."

"I have never had much to say to her," remarked Mrs. Renford, "for I have always had the impression that, for some reason, she does not approve of me. I remember once, soon after we came here, meeting her on the stairs, and her asking me why I did not go out charring; and when I told her I knew very little about housework, she cast such a scornful glance at me. I am sure," the poor woman continued plaintively, "I would gladly do charring if I could, for, though I've worked my best with my needle these two years past, it's been hard to earn enough for the necessaries of life, and only you and I know, Felicia, how short of food we've been sometimes. If you hadn't helped me out of school hours and proved yourself so clever with your needle, I don't know what we should have done. Oh, I hope I shall soon be better and able to work again!"

"I hope so, mother," Felicia replied. "If you are not better to-morrow we really must have a doctor—"

"No, no!" the invalid interrupted. "A doctor would want me to go into a hospital, or perhaps into the workhouse infirmary. I know he would, and then we should be separated! Oh, I couldn't bear that! We've never been parted, and—oh, may God forgive me if I've been a selfish mother!—I've always set my face against that! Maybe it won't be long we shall have together, anyway," she added in a lower tone.

"What do you mean, mother?" Felicia asked in a troubled voice, a look of apprehension creeping into her eyes. "You don't mean—oh, you cannot mean that you would give me up to my father's relations?"

"No, no! Never mind what I mean now. When I lost my husband I vowed I would never give you up; and though, often since, I've thought I perhaps acted unwisely and against your interests, I've never really regretted the stand I took. I'm a poor creature at best now, Felicia; but if only I'd not had that terrible illness two years ago, I should have been able to bring you up and educate you as a lady. Oh, it's very, very hard to think that God wills everything for the best."

"But He does, doesn't He, mother?"

"I try to think so, my dear, but I am afraid I am not a very brave woman. Still, in my heart of hearts, I realise that God does know what is best for us. 'Be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.' Yes, we must be of good courage."

Mrs. Renford was still sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, a crimson shawl arranged around her shoulders over her night-dress. She was a very pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, with small, delicate features, and there was a bright, deceptive flush on her thin cheeks as she conversed with her little daughter. Felicia thought how much better her mother was looking to-night, and her spirits rose as she reassured herself with the thought that she had taken a turn for the better, and would soon be well again.

After the little girl had washed the supper things and tidied the room—the floor around the spot where she had been seated at work all day had been strewn with ends of cotton and scraps of print—she went to the window, which was wide open to admit as much air as possible, and looked out. The moon, like a golden globe, was high in the heavens, and illuminated the roofs and chimney pots which, with a glimpse of the sluggish river, comprised the view.

"It is a beautiful night," Felicia informed her mother as she raised her tired eyes to the cloudless sky; "the air is so fresh, and the river is shining like silver—who would think it is actually so dirty? Oh, mother dear, you must make haste and get strong enough to go out-of-doors, for one forgets it is summer, shut up here!"

[CHAPTER II]

Mrs. M'Cosh Goes Upstairs

"I AM afraid that poor woman up in the attic is in a bad state," remarked Mrs. M'Cosh to her husband half-an-hour after she had so summarily dismissed Felicia; "I've not seen her for weeks, but the last time I met her on the stairs I was struck by her appearance, she looked as though a breath of wind would have blown her away, and now she's laid up altogether."

"Dear me, dear me," responded Mr. M'Cosh, "that's sad—very."

Husband and wife were seated at the supper table. The former had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and was now dawdling over the drinking of his second cup of tea. He was a small, wiry man—a mason by trade—with a mild, clean-shaven face, thin, iron-gray hair, and a pair of light blue eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh usually addressed him as "Master," and he always spoke of her as "the missus," but it was the general impression of outsiders that Mrs. M'Cosh was master and mistress too. However that may have been, they were a united couple, for James M'Cosh was a steady, hard-working man, and his wife was a thrifty, industrious woman who made their home—the second storey of the house—a comfortable and happy one.

"Yes, it's very sad," agreed Mrs. M'Cosh. She sat in silence for a few minutes, her brow knitted in a frown. "They seem lonely folks," she went on by-and-by, "without a friend in the place. Felicia—why couldn't her mother have called her plain Mary, or Susan, or Jane, or some sensible name?—was here to beg some boiling water just now, and she looked fit to drop. I expect she'd been at the sewing machine all day."

"Poor child!" said Mr. M'Cosh; "such a bright-looking, pretty little girl she is, too, to be kept shut up in that attic all day long! It's very hard for her."

"I don't know why it should be harder for her because she's pretty!"

"I didn't mean that; but it always goes to my heart to hear of young folks in trouble, and when I see the child of that poor widow upstairs, I always think of our child—about the same age as this Felicia she would have been if she had lived, wouldn't she?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded, her plain countenance softening, her shrewd grey eyes growing dim. She had never had but one child—a baby girl who had lived but a few months to gladden her parents' hearts.

"Now, I rather like the name Felicia myself," Mr. M'Cosh admitted; "it's out of the common. What makes you object to it?"

"It's too fanciful, to my mind; it would do well enough for a lady, but think of a girl who'll have to work for her living being called Felicia! I should say her mother is a foolish, unpractical sort of woman."

"Poor soul! It's easy to see she's come down in the world," commented Mr. M'Cosh.

"Yes," agreed his wife; "she's a way of wearing her clothes so as to make the best of them, and I must admit she and the child always look tidy and clean. If she'd been able to scrub she'd be better off to-day; blouse-making and that sort of employment is heartbreaking work, and there's very little profit, I'm afraid, after paying for the hire of a sewing machine. 'Tis 'sweating,' that's what it is, and it never ought to be allowed."

"Has Mrs. Renford had a doctor?" inquired Mr. M'Cosh. Then, as his wife shook her head, he added, decidedly: "Someone ought to see to her."

Mrs. M'Cosh made no rejoinder immediately. She rather prided herself on having nothing to do with her neighbours and "keeping herself to herself," as she expressed it. At length, however, she said—

"'Tis the duty of ministers and district visitors to find out those who are sick and in want of assistance. You can't think it's my place to interfere. Mrs. Renford has always rather kept me at a distance."

Mr. M'Cosh regarded his wife with a smile lurking it around the corners of his mouth, and an expression of amusement in his mild blue eyes; and when he spoke again, it was to change the conversation.

Supper finished, Mrs. M'Cosh washed and put away the supper things, then sat down near the open window opposite to her husband. This was the hour of the day she liked best, but to-night she failed to enjoy it quite so much as usual by reason of her mind being so full of the sick woman upstairs. She was obviously restless and ill at ease. At ten o'clock, that being the time at which they generally began to think of going to bed, she fetched her Bible and read a chapter aloud as she did every night. On this occasion it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Saint Matthew's Gospel which she read, and when she had finished it, she shut the Bible, and looked exceedingly thoughtful.

"There's wonderful teaching in those last verses," observed Mr. M'Cosh meditatively, with a sly glance at his better half. "'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,'" he quoted; "to think that the smallest act of kindness one may do is doing it unto Him! 'Tis a solemn thought."

Mrs. M'Cosh had no answer ready, but the expression of her face was gentler than usual, and a little regretful as she reflected that the privilege of helping others for Christ's sake might have been oftener hers if she had pleased.

She made no mention of Mrs. Renford to her husband on the following morning. He was up and at work soon after daybreak, and came home to breakfast at eight o'clock. When he had gone again, his wife left her own domain, and for the first time during the many years she had lived in the house, found her way upstairs. Flight after flight she climbed until the top storey was reached and the attic where the sick woman and her little daughter dwelt. The sound of a sewing machine fell upon her ears as she knocked at the closed door. Immediately, the "whirr-whirr-whirr" of the machine ceased, and Felicia answered her summons.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, "I am sorry I have not returned your dish; I was going to do so by-and-by. It was a most lovely supper—"

"I have not come about the dish," interposed Mrs. M'Cosh, panting, for she was breathless after her climb, "but to inquire for your mother. How is she this morning?"

"Please come in," said the invalid, recognising the visitor's voice. Then, as Mrs. M'Cosh entered the room, she exclaimed with real pleasure in her tone: "How good of you to come to inquire for me! I am so glad to see you, for I want to thank you for your kindness to us last night."

"Don't mention it," replied Mrs. M'Cosh.

She took the chair Felicia placed for her by the bedside, and proceeded to examine the sick woman's countenance critically.

"But I must mention it because I feel so very, very grateful," Mrs. Renford said, smiling. "God bless you. You have proved yourself a neighbour indeed."

Mrs. M'Cosh's colour deepened till it was the hue of a peony. Her eyes wandered from the sick woman's face to the slender, white fingers which played nervously with the coverlet, and with a gesture which was wholly womanly and kind, she covered them with her large hand as she asked—

"What have you had for breakfast?"

"A cup of tea. I could eat nothing—I have no appetite. But I do not think I am worse to-day, I feel in better spirits. Do you know, I think your goodness has cheered me up? We are so alone—Felicia and I."

"Isn't there anyone you could send for?" Mrs. M'Cosh inquired. "Have you no relations?"

"None of my own. I never knew either father or mother; I was brought up in London by a French lady, a Miss de Musset—one of the best women that ever lived! I was always very musical, and as I grew up it was discovered that I had a beautiful voice which I was so fortunate as to have well trained. I worked hard, and, in due course, I set up as a music and singing mistress. I gave up my work when I married; but when my husband died soon after Felicia was born, I took it up again and earned a good living for myself and my child till a little over two years ago. Then I had a most serious illness. I caught typhoid fever, and lay for a long while at death's door; I lost my beautiful voice and was partially paralysed for many months."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. M'Cosh commiseratingly; "that was the beginning of your troubles, I suppose?"

"Yes. When I was well enough to work again, I realised that my career as a music and singing mistress was at an end. I have never regained my voice, but the paralysis left me after a while and I could use my hands for sewing. By that time the little money I'd saved had all been spent; and I didn't know what to do."

"What made you come to Bristol?"

"I knew the forewoman of a factory here, and she promised me work. She kept her word, but the work was too trying for me. I could not do it, and—it's so easy to go downhill—"

"There, there, don't tell me any more," broke in Mrs. M'Cosh, and there was a note of sincere sympathy in her deep, gruff voice; "I can guess how things went. What you've got to do now is to pick up your strength, and you must try not to worry. Well, I suppose I must not stay longer, for I'm interrupting Felicia in her work."

"Would you come and sit with me an hour this evening whilst Felicia goes out to do some errands?" questioned the invalid eagerly.

"Certainly," was the prompt response.

"Oh, thank you! Felicia doesn't care to leave me alone. I shall be so glad if you will come, for I want to have a talk with you."

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded and left the room, motioning to Felicia to follow her. Outside the door she whispered to the little girl to run downstairs presently and fetch a glass of egg and milk which she was going to mix for her mother.

"What did she say, dear?" Mrs. Renford asked when Felicia returned, and on being told, she murmured: "How very, very kind!" Later, she was able to drink part of the egg and milk and declared she felt better, her headache had gone, and she really thought to-morrow she would be able to get up. Felicia was so cheered to hear her mother speaking hopefully that her heart sang with joy as she worked. During the afternoon Mrs. Renford sat up in bed and made the button-holes in the heap of blouses which were waiting for her finishing touches. Long before her task was at an end she grew very tired, but she succeeded in completing it; then, too weary almost to speak, she lay back on her pillows to rest.

The hot summer sunshine shone through the open window, and the room grew more and more airless, whilst Felicia laboured uncomplainingly, seldom removing her eyes from her work. At length, however, she made some remark, and receiving no answer turned to look at her mother. Mrs. Renford was lying white and still, and Felicia ran to her side with a cry of alarm to find she had fainted.

[CHAPTER III]

White Lilies

FRIGHTENED immeasurably at the discovery that her mother was quite unconscious, Felicia summoned Mrs. M'Cosh, who bathed the invalid's face and hands with cold water and soon succeeded in reviving her and in reassuring the little girl who stood trembling by the bedside. One point Mrs. M'Cosh now insisted upon, and that was that a doctor should be called in. Accordingly, the parish doctor was sent for, and came and examined the sick woman very carefully. He spoke of heart trouble and general debility, but much to the relief of mother and daughter he did not suggest the patient's removal to a hospital. He would tell the district nurse to look in, he said, and he would also speak to the relieving officer.

"Meanwhile, I will undertake to see that Mrs. Renford wants for nothing," declared Mrs. M'Cosh; "I live in the house and understand nursing."

The doctor nodded and took his departure, promising to call again on the following day. Mrs. M'Cosh followed him downstairs and held a brief conference with him ere he left the house. Ten minutes later she reappeared in the attic, bearing a tray which held a teapot, three cups, a cake, and a plate of daintily cut bread and butter.

"I thought it would be pleasant for us all to have tea together," she remarked as she put her burden on the table. "Now, Felicia, try to make a good meal, to please me, and do you try also, my dear," she added, glancing at the invalid.

"I shall never be able to thank you for your kindness," Mrs. Renford replied, with rather an uncertain smile. She was deeply touched by the way in which Mrs. M'Cosh had called her "my dear."

"Please don't try," was the quick response; "I've a notion that if I was ill you'd do as much for me. Yes, I know you would. Now, Felicia, cut that cake whilst I pour out the tea."

The little girl obeyed. She was looking quite bright and smiling, the truth being that she thought her mother could not be very ill, as the doctor had not ordered her removal to the hospital; and she was so relieved at his not having done so that she was feeling quite light-hearted. Poor little girl, she did not dream of the trouble which was coming upon her!

Mrs. M'Cosh watched her with an expression of mingled sympathy and tenderness which was not lost upon the invalid, who, at the conclusion of the meal, suggested that Felicia should go out and do the errands she had mentioned earlier in the day. Accordingly, Felicia sallied forth, carrying a great bundle of blouses and aprons to be delivered at the shop for which her mother worked, satisfied with the knowledge that Mrs. M'Cosh would remain in the attic till her return.

"Indeed, she is very, very kind," thought the little girl gratefully; "and she seems to get on with mother better than she did at first."

She took the blouses and aprons to the shop, and received the payment for the making of them—only a small sum, certainly, but sufficient to buy a few groceries. How she longed to be able to purchase something very nice for her mother! She lingered outside the provision shops staring into the windows, halt no one took any notice of her. In Bristol, that city of charities, as in most places, it is the deserving poor who are generally overlooked.

"Oh, if I were only rich!" sighed Felicia, pausing by-and-by before a florist's shop. "How I wish I had some of those flowers for mother! Oh, those roses and lilies! How she would love a sight of them!"

A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile, it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.

"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment! Oh, how pleased mother will be!"

On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—

"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"

Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.

"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"

"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt.

"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put my house in order, so to speak—"

"Mother!"

It was an exceedingly bitter cry, full of sorrow and fear, and bursting into a passion of grief, Felicia sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Renford watched her pitifully, murmuring, "Poor child! Poor child! My poor little girl!"

At length it dawned upon Felicia that for her mother's sake she must try to compose herself, and struggling to subdue her sobs, she wiped the tears from her eyes, but they would flow again.

"Oh, mother, it cannot be that you are so ill as that!" she cried at length.

"Yes, my dear, it is so. I do not mind except for you, and—and even for you, Felicia, it may be for the best. Don't look at me so reproachfully, dear, I know what I am saying. Listen to me, little daughter, and don't make things harder for us both than you can help."

"Oh, mother, I will try not to! But, oh, what shall I do, what shall I do when—when—"

"When I am gone? It is about that I want to speak to you. You know, dear, you have relations in Somerset, your grandfather and grandmother—your father's parents."

"I can't bear to think of them, mother. They were cruel to you."

"They were not kind," Mrs. Renford admitted, "but—but they did not understand. They never forgave their son for marrying me, and when he died they would have taken you from me, it is true; but—I want you not to dwell on that. When I am gone, I believe they will give you a home. I've been talking matters over with Mrs. M'Cosh, and she agrees with me that you ought to go to them—but not whilst I live; I cannot part with you yet, my dear, dear child."

Felicia flung her arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her with passionate affection. Her tears had ceased to flow now, but her heart was full of a dull sense of despair.

"My mind has been much troubled by doubts and fears to-day," Mrs. Renford proceeded to admit, "but when you came in just now with those lilies, they reminded me of Christ's promise to care for His own. Did He not say, 'Fear not, little flock'? And you and I belong to His flock, Felicia, and though we shall be parted before long by the valley of the shadow of death, we shall meet again. Oh, my dear, that thought must be our consolation now!"

Mrs. Renford sank back exhausted upon the pillow, but presently she continued the conversation.

"I have made a great many mistakes in my life," she confessed sadly. "I ought not to have married your father without his parents' consent, but I was young and thoughtless, and I did not understand they would so utterly disapprove of me as they did. I was not brought up as they considered their son's wife should have been. Oh, Felicia, if better days come to you, don't let them make you forget the past, and—and—if anyone endeavours to teach you to be ashamed of your mother, remember that, though she was a 'nobody' and not very wise, she loved you and tried to teach you to be a good girl, and—she did the best she could. God doesn't ask more than that, and you know His judgment is not the world's, but infinitely loving and merciful."

"Oh, mother, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you?" Felicia questioned in a heart-broken voice. "Oh, why do you talk to me like this? Perhaps, after all, the doctor is mistaken, and you will recover."

"It may be so, of course; I have heard that doctors cannot always tell how it will be when a patient is suffering from heart disease. But if he is right, you will do as I wish, will you not?"

Felicia nodded silently, and her mother was satisfied.

"I have given Mrs. M'Cosh instructions how to act. I feel she is one to be trusted, and she has proved herself kind and sympathetic—a true friend in need." Mrs. Renford paused, and her eyes wandered to the flowers on the table—the room was full of their fragrance. "How beautiful those lilies are!" she exclaimed, with a ring of pleasure in her frail voice; "God bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is. They have come like a message from God."

For several days the lilies bloomed in the pickle jar, whilst the sick woman grew weaker hour by hour. Felicia was obliged to cease working, for her mother could not endure the sound of the sewing machine; and, instead, she spent her time ministering to the dear invalid who followed her eve loving, wistful eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh came and went; the doctor was very kind and attentive, and the district nurse called to see what she could do; but Mrs. Renford was passing beyond human assistance. One morning found her lying white and lifeless with a smile of ineffable content upon her lips, and Mrs. M'Cosh—her plain face swelled and purple with weeping—laid the pure, white lilies on her breast, and then led Felicia—stunned with grief at the loss she had sustained—unresistingly from the room.

[CHAPTER IV]

Desolation

"WHAT a deluge!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh, coming to the window where Felicia stood gazing out into the street. She laid her large hand with a kindly pressure on the little girl's shoulder as she spoke. "I'm afraid master will get very wet coming home from work. One thing I'm glad of, and that is, that it did not rain like this in the afternoon."

"Yes," assented Felicia, "I am glad it kept fine till—till all was over."

That afternoon she and Mrs. M'Cosh had followed her mother to her last earthly resting-place in the cemetery, and now she was experiencing more keenly than ever that sense of desolation which had fallen upon her when she had left the death-chamber three days previously. The weather, which had been dry, though overclouded, throughout the morning and afternoon, had now turned to rain, which was descending in torrents, and running in streams down the gutters on either side of the street. It was weather in keeping with her feelings, Felicia told herself; she thought she would have felt her sorrow still more acutely if the sun had shone that day.

The last week had passed like a dream to the little mourner. She was truly grateful to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh, who had not only given her the shelter of their own home, but had saved her mother from the degradation of a pauper's funeral; and now she was thinking that she could not remain with these kind friends much longer, she must keep her promise to her mother, and go to her father's people.

"How I wish I could stay with you altogether," she whispered by-and-by, her soft blue eyes shining through tears—"with you and dear Mr. M'Cosh!"

"Ah! I wish we could keep you, my dear, and so does master, I'm sure!"

"Supposing my grandfather and grandmother don't want me," suggested Felicia, sighing, "what shall I do then?"

"Why, then, you can come back to us. Yes, I mean it. Master and I talked the matter over last night, and he said I must impress upon you that you'd never be without friends in the world whilst we're alive."

Felicia flung her arms impulsively around the good woman's neck, and hugged and kissed her rapturously. How much rather would she face the future with Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh than with strangers like her relations. But there was her promise to her mother to be kept. Oh, she did hope her grandparents would refuse her a home!

Later in the evening, after Mr. M'Cosh had returned from work, and had had his supper, he and his wife fell to talking of Felicia's prospects in life. It appeared he had been making inquiries about the little girl's relatives, and had learnt that they lived in a house called the Priory, on the outskirts of the village of N—, in Somersetshire. Felicia had the address in a pocket-book of her mother's, which contained several papers of importance, including her parents' marriage certificate.

"The Priory is a fine place, I'm told," Mr. M'Cosh remarked; "my mate worked there once when Mr. Renford was making some alterations in his stables, but more than half of the house is shut up. Doesn't it seem somehow wrong," he proceeded meditatively, "to think of Felicia and the poor soul who's gone living upstairs in that attic, when there's so many rooms wasting, so to speak, in that great house?"

"It seems most unjust!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh indignantly. "Mr. Renford must be—" She paused abruptly, doubting whether it would be wisdom to say what she thought of Felicia's grandfather.

"Did you, hear what my grandmother was like, Mr. M'Cosh?" inquired Felicia anxiously.

"No, my dear, my mate never saw her, and he was told she seldom went out, except for drives in fine weather. The Priory is a very old house, beautifully situated in the midst of lovely scenery. Why, Felicia, you'll hardly know yourself there!"

"Perhaps I shan't be wanted," said Felicia with a little choking sob.

But Mr. M'Cosh was of a different opinion, and said so. He thought such a pretty little girl as Felicia would be very welcome in the big, lonely house his friend had been at some pains to depict to him. It seemed strange, after all he had heard, that Mr. Renford's grandchild should be his guest, and he regarded her with a somewhat wistful expression in his mild blue eyes, which Felicia noticed and wondered at.

"When do you think I ought to go to the Priory?" she asked in a tearful voice.

"Well, let me see, it's Friday now," Mr. M'Cosh observed reflectively; "we'd like to keep you till Monday, if you'll stay—eh, missus?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded silently.

"If I'll stay!" cried Felicia. "Oh, if I could always live with you, how delighted I should be! But I promised mother to go to father's relations, and, of course, I must go."

"They have the best right to you, my dear. Don't you think, though, you ought to write and say you're coming?" And Mr. M'Cosh glanced dubiously from the little girl to his wife.

"No," the latter answered, "her mother said particularly that she was to go—that her grandparents might see her."

"But I have no money," Felicia said with a painful blush.

"Oh, we can manage that!" Mr. M'Cosh told her reassuringly. "Your journey money will be very little. N— is only an hour's ride by train from Bristol, it's on the main line."

"But—but you have spent so much money on me already," murmured the little girl distressfully, "on me and—her! Oh, don't think I don't realise all you've done for us! I know you've paid for the funeral, and my new black frock and hat, and—and there's nothing I can do for you in return! I owe you so much—so much!"

"Never mind that," said Mr. M'Cosh earnestly, "we've been glad to help." He coughed as though there was something in his throat, then continued: "The missus and I had a little girl ourselves once, my dear; she didn't stay with us very long, and we thought it was cruelly hard God should take her away. When we heard the earth fall on her little coffin, we felt—well, much as you felt this afternoon, I expect—as though our hearts would never cease aching, as though we could never be happy again because of our loss; but as time went on, we were glad to know our child was safe with God. If she had lived, she would have been about your age, and that's made us take to you; isn't that so?" he asked, turning to his wife, who nodded assent.

This was the first occasion on which Felicia had ever heard mention made of the dead child, and she was very touched. Sore-hearted herself, she could enter into the sorrow of these good people, and sympathise with them. She had lost her mother; they had lost their child.

The next day she paid a farewell visit to the home which had been hers and her mother's for the past two years. Already it had been re-let and the new tenant was to come into residence that night. The attic was scrupulously clean, for Mrs. M'Cosh had thoroughly scrubbed the floor and rubbed the few pieces of furniture which belonged to the owner of the house.

Poor Felicia flung herself down beside the empty bed and wept heart-brokenly; then, exhausted by the violence of her grief, she crept to the window and looked out on the familiar view. It almost seemed as though she must hear her mother's voice addressing her presently. The last week appeared so unreal—like a hideous dream, the final scene of which had been enacted yesterday afternoon. Felicia had never attended a funeral before her mother's, and now as she stood by the open window, her aching eyes raised above the roofs and chimney tops to the wide expanse of sky overhead, she recalled the opening words of the Service of the previous day. And as she repeated them softly to herself they fell like healing balm upon her heart—

"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.'"

Her mother had believed, of that she was certain, therefore she need have no fears for her. And for herself—oh, she must not be a coward, she must trust her future to God's hands! She looked around the little attic, and wondered if she would ever see it again. She could picture her mother seated at the round table working the sewing machine even better than she could picture her on the bed in the corner. She was glad of that, for she would far rather think of her well than ill. How bright and cheerful she had been in her days of health, and how bravely she had faced sickness and death. What was that verse she had repeated to her one day when she, Felicia, had been inclined to grumble? Ah, she remembered! And she hoped she might never forget.

"God never would send you the darkness

If He knew you could bear the light;

But you would not cling to His guiding hand

If the way were always bright;

And you would not learn to walk by faith,

Could you always walk by sight."

She would try to walk by faith, but she dreaded the thought of facing those who had, as she knew, despised and disapproved of her mother; and deep down in her heart was still the hope that her grandparents would close their doors against her, in which case she would gladly return to the friends God had raised up for her in her time of need. Mr. M'Cosh was only a workingman, and his wife was only a working-woman, but there was nothing "common" about them as Felicia understood the word, and she was sure she would be quite content to live with them.

Suddenly Mrs. M'Cosh's rubicund countenance appeared round the door, and her deep voice interrupted Felicia's reverie—

"You've been here long enough, child," she said, "better come downstairs."

"I'm coming," Felicia answered readily, and though her face was swollen and her eyes red with weeping, her tone was less listless than it had been during the last few days.

"I came to look for you because I feared you were grieving," Mrs. M'Cosh explained solicitously; "it's natural you should, but depend upon it, you needn't grieve for her."

"No, it's for myself—that's selfish, I suppose. It seems to me I never can be quite my old self again. Nothing is the same now she is gone."

"I think when one loses someone one cares for very much, one never can be quite as one was before," Mrs. M'Cosh said musingly; "it gives one a solemn kind of feeling to know there's someone who loves one dearly waiting for one in Heaven, doesn't it?"

Felicia agreed; and after another lingering glance around the room, she followed Mrs. M'Cosh downstairs. Thus she said good-bye, for ever, to her attic home.

[CHAPTER V]

Lion's Find

MRS. M'COSH and Felicia stood on the down platform at Bristol railway station, waiting for the arrival of the train by which the latter was to travel to N—. A very pretty, interesting little girl Felicia appeared in her neat black dress and hat, looking younger than her twelve years by reason of her small, slight figure. She held her companion's hand—encased in baggy cotton gloves—very tight, and gazed up into her broad, red face with sorrowful, blue eyes, as the minutes slipped all too quickly away, bringing the time at which the train was due to arrive at Bristol very near now.

"You have the pocket-book safe?" said Mrs. M'Cosh interrogatively.

"Yes, here," Felicia answered, touching the bosom of her frock.

"That's right, my dear; all you have to do is to put it into your grandfather's hands. Then if he says you 're to stay, you'll send me a line and I'll forward your box at once."

"And if he says he won't have anything to do with me I shall come right back again," declared Felicia; "Mr. M'Cosh has given me enough money to buy my ticket home. Perhaps you'll see me again this evening."

She was trying to speak calmly; but her lips quivered and her eyes were dim. Mrs. M'Cosh smiled at her encouragingly, and bade her keep a good heart.

"Master suggested my taking you to the Priory myself, Felicia," she said, "but I thought that wouldn't do. Your relations are gentlefolks, you see, and they mightn't understand how I had come to be your friend."

"I shall tell them," Felicia interposed quickly, with a flash of her blue eyes and a grateful pressure of her little fingers on the big hand she clasped so affectionately; "I shall tell them that you and Mr. M'Cosh are my best and dearest friends, and I shall explain all you have done for mother and me. Oh, I wish you were coming too!"

Mrs. M'Cosh rather wished it herself. She was very anxious as well as not a little curious to know the reception Felicia would get when she presented herself at the Priory. At that moment, however, the train arrived, and clasping the little girl in her arms she kissed her tenderly.

"Good-bye, child, and God bless you," she said, her deep voice unusually soft in tone. Then she added hurriedly: "Be a good girl, and obey your grandparents if so be they decide to give you a home, and I suppose they won't be able to refuse to provide for you, anyway. Master and I would dearly like to adopt you, but your father was a gentleman, it appears, and you belong to a different class of folks to what we do, and so—and so—you understand it would never do."

They found a compartment with a corner seat empty, which Felicia took. There was no opportunity for further conversation of a private nature; and a few minutes later the train steamed out of the station. Felicia put her head out of the window and tried to smile, but it was a very sorry attempt, for she was deeply grieved at heart.

Mrs. M'Cosh stood on the platform waving her handkerchief till she had watched the train out of sight, then she turned her footsteps homewards, very low-spirited indeed. She much doubted if she would ever see Felicia again.

"I wonder why God should have let us become attached to the child if He meant to let her pass right out of our lives," she mused; "perhaps He just wanted to make use of us for the time. Well, we won't grumble at that, for maybe the little we've been able to do He'll count as done unto Him. Poor little Felicia! I hope her grand relations will treat her well and make her happy."

Meanwhile the train was carrying Felicia beyond the smoke and the grime of the city into a purer, sweeter atmosphere, and soon it was rushing between pleasant meadowlands, where haymaking was going on. Through the open window of the carriage came delicious scents of flowers, and when the train—a slow one—stopped at the small stations on the line, Felicia was charmed by their well-kept gardens.

How beautiful everything was on that perfect summer day! The little girl's spirits began to rise, and a thrill of happiness stole into her heart, only to give place, a moment later, to a pang of sorrow at the thought that there was no dear mother with her now to enjoy the beauty on which she was feasting her eyes.

"But if it is so lovely here, how much lovelier must it be in Heaven," reflected Felicia, and the thought brought comfort with it.

At last the train slowed into the station at N—, and Felicia alighted on to the platform. She found she was the only passenger who left the train, which waited but a couple of minutes.

"Any luggage?" questioned the porter in the doorway, to whom Felicia tendered her ticket.

"No," she replied, colouring, as she noticed the curiosity of his glance. "Can you tell me the way to the Priory?" she inquired.

"FELICIA PUT HER HEAD OUT OF THE WINDOW, AND TRIED TO SMILE."

"To the Priory?" His eyes travelled over her black dress, then rested on her face again. "Yes, certainly. Keep to your right through the village, go past the church and the Vicarage, and in about five minutes' walk from there you'll come to the Priory gate."

"Thank you," she responded politely.

"A friend of one of the servants, are you?" he asked, following her out of the station.

"No—oh no!"

"Not a friend of the family?" he questioned dubiously.

"Not a friend—exactly," she answered. He was very inquisitive, she thought, but she could see he did not intend to be rude. "Keep to the right, you said? Good morning—and thank you."

Felicia started towards the village at a quick rate, but she slackened her footsteps and looked around her attentively when she reached the first cottages. The village street was long and straggling, and almost deserted on this hot, summer afternoon, for most of the adult inhabitants were haymaking and the children were at school. Felicia passed the schoolhouse by-and-by—it stood on the opposite side of the road to the church—from whence came the monotonous singsong noise of some fifty young voices repeating a lesson. Close to the church, which was a picturesque old edifice, was the Vicarage—a modern red-brick house, with bow windows. The Vicarage garden joined the churchyard wall, in which there was a door of communication. Felicia was naturally an observant child, and little escaped the notice of her sharp eyes as she followed the porter's directions and kept straight on. Her heart began to palpitate unevenly when she, at length, reached the big iron gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, and as she passed up the wide carriage drive leading to the house she began to tremble with nervousness, and when she stood before the front door, it was several minutes before she could pluck up sufficient courage to ring the bell; and the instant she did nerve herself to do so, she felt inclined to take to her heels and run away.

In answer to her ring, the door was opened by a tall, old man, with snowy hair and a pair of bright, brown eyes. He spoke to Felicia in a tone of indulgent surprise.

"Well, little maiden, what brings you here ringing at the front door—eh?"

Felicia regarded him timidly. Her limbs were trembling, and she was very flustered, for she had jumped to the conclusion that this benevolent-looking old man must be her grandfather.

"Oh, please," she gasped, "are you—are you Mr. Renford?"

"No, my dear," he replied with a chuckle of amusement. "But who, pray, are you? I don't seem to know your face—you're not one of the village children?"

"No. I—I've come from Bristol. I—I particularly want to see Mr. Renford."

"He's not in; he's out with the haymakers. Better tell me your business."

"No, thank you," Felicia responded; "I will call again. Will Mr. Renford be at home soon?"

"He'll be home in good time for dinner."

"In good time for dinner? Why, it must be nearly four o'clock!" cried Felicia, whose acquaintances had always dined in the middle of the day.

"It's past four," said the old man, smiling. "Seven's the dinner hour at the Priory. Now, come, my dear, what do you want of the master? Can't I do as well? What's your name—eh?"

But Felicia merely shook her head; and repeating that she would call again, she turned hastily away, and retraced her footsteps down the carriage drive into the high road.

By that time she was hot and panting, and sought about for some sheltered spot where she could sit down and rest. There was no shade in the high road, so she climbed a five-barred gate into a meadow, where the grass, which was starred with moon daisies, was not laid up for mowing. The meadow sloped towards a deep ditch, overgrown with hazel bushes, and into this ditch Felicia crept amongst the tall meadow-sweet and yellow irises. It was cool and shady there, a damp place in the winter, no doubt, but the drought of the last few weeks had dried it up, and the little girl sat down to rest, thinking what a charming spot she had discovered. She was very tired, worn out by excitement, in fact, and it was very comfortable in the ditch. The air was full of the pungent scent of meadow-sweet, and the drowsy hum of insects fell soothingly upon her ears. Her eyelids were heavy, so she closed them, and laid her head back upon the cool, green grass, and thus fell into a little doze from which she passed into a deep, firm sleep.

An hour went by—two hours—and still the child slept undisturbed; but at length a huge dog—a mastiff—leaped the gate from the road into the meadow, and, nose to the ground, made straight for the ditch. The next minute Felicia was awakened by a movement at her side, and opening her eyes, she was terribly shocked to see an enormous, yellowish-drab animal, with cruel-looking open jaws, from which lolled a great red tongue, standing over her. She dared not speak or move, fearing the creature would pounce upon her, for he looked so fierce, and the gaze of his light brown eyes was so appalling.

Thus the child and the dog regarded each other silently, immovably, for some minutes; then the latter began to slowly wag his tail, and bending his head he gently licked first the little girl's hands, next her cheek. Relieved to find him inclined to be friendly, she ventured to stroke his neck; whereupon he exhibited great delight, and lifting up his head, gave utterance to a deep bark. A moment later a man's voice responded, shouting: "Lion! Lion! where are you, old boy?"

Lion wagged his tail, looked expectant, and barked again.

"What have you found? Nothing of importance, I expect, but I suppose I must come and see," grumbled the voice. "Where are you? Oh, there in the ditch, hidden by the meadow-sweet and the rest of the ditch flowers. Why—well, I never!" The speaker paused in astonishment. He had reached the spot where Felicia lay, and clutching the dog by the collar, he pulled him sharply back as he bent his gaze on the little girl, a humorous smile curving his lips. "This is a rare sort of ditch flower," he remarked, "as evidently Lion thought when he found you. My child, why are you hiding there?"

[CHAPTER VI]

Felicia and Her Grandfather

FELICIA was still trembling, though she no longer experienced any fears of the big dog, and her eyes looked startled as she raised them to meet the gaze of a pair as clear and blue as her own. Lion's master was a gentleman past middle age, but his tall figure, clad in a tweed knickerbocker suit, was erect and vigorous, and his brown hair was but sparsely sprinkled with gray. His face, the features of which were decidedly handsome, was clean-shaven; and child though she was, Felicia noticed that it was rather a hard face, though at present it was softened by a smile.

"I came here to rest," she explained as she scrambled out of the ditch; "I was asleep when your dog found me."

"I hope he did not frighten you?"

"He did, a little, at first; but then he licked my hands and face, and I knew he would not do that if he meant to hurt me."

"No, indeed! Lion must have taken a fancy to you; he does not, as a rule, make friends quickly." The gentleman looked at her attentively. "Do you live in the village?" he inquired.

"Oh no!" she replied.

"Ah, I thought not! The village children grow roses on their cheeks, and you have none. It takes sunshine and fresh air to grow roses." He released his hold of Lion's collar and smiled as the dog immediately went to the little girl to be noticed.

She patted his great head, not in the least afraid of him now, whilst he submitted to be made much of with great contentment.

"What a nice dog he is!" she exclaimed.

"You are accustomed to animals?"

"No, but I love them. We—mother and I—always lived in lodgings, and so, of course, I could not keep pets, and the last two years whilst we have been in Bristol—" She broke off and grew red, for she had been about to explain that they had had enough to do to feed themselves, but suddenly remembered there was no necessity to tell that to a stranger.

"And are you and your mother living in Bristol now?" he inquired after a brief pause.

"My mother died a week ago," Felicia responded in a low tone; "oh, it seems a great deal longer than that! And now—and now I have no home."

"No home? But you have friends?"

"Oh, yes!" she cried, her face brightening, "the best in the world!"

"Where are they? What are you doing at N—?"

Felicia hesitated and regarded him dubiously. He had a masterful way of asking questions as though he had a right to put them.

"My friends live at Bristol," she answered with a touch of reserve in her tone; "and I have come to N— on business about—about myself."

"On business about yourself!" he exclaimed, laughing, evidently amused at her reply; "and you mean to keep it to yourself, I perceive. Well, you're quite right. Come, Lion, we must be moving on, old boy."

"Oh, please, will you tell me the time?" demanded Felicia eagerly. "Is it seven o'clock yet?"

"Not quite, It is—let me see—" he looked at his watch—"it is half-past six exactly."

"Thank you. How long I must have slept! Two hours at least. Good evening!" and she hurried across the meadow in the direction of the gate.

The gentleman followed the small, black-gowned figure, wondering who the child could be, whilst, much to his surprise, he observed that the dog kept close to her side, though he glanced back at his master now and then to see if he was following.

Felicia climbed over the gate, the dog leaping it after her; then she walked at a more sedate pace, for she did not wish to arrive at the Priory in a breathless condition. At the entrance to the Priory grounds she glanced back and saw the gentleman not far behind, and before she had gone half the distance of the carriage drive he had overtaken her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded in a peremptory tone. "Do you know where this leads?"

"Yes, to the Priory," she responded. "I am going to see Mr. Renford. I called more than two hours ago, but he was not in then, so I'm going to find out if he's come home. Oh, I do hope he has!"

"What is your business with him?" he inquired, laying a detaining hand on her shoulder; "come, child, speak out and tell me."

"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—"

"MY CHILD, WHY ARE YOU HIDING THERE?"

Friendless Felicia

OR

A Little City Sparrow

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

Author of

"Little Maid Marigold," "Mousey," "Salome's Burden,"

"Angel's Brother," "The Moat House," etc.

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

London

S. W. Partridge & Co.

8 and 9 Paternoster Row

CONTENTS