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But I knew more than he did, and I came on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet him?" "Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe." "And his mother and the children they, know nothing?" she said. "Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered. "How could I bear to tell them that he is dead?

But when Roland had been away three months, and the police authorities had given up all expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr. Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment. "Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live mewed up here all your days.

I did not expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me." "And you will go back to your writing?" said Phebe. Felicita hesitated for a moment. There was a worn and harassed expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for a long time, which touched Phebe's heart. "Not yet," she answered; "I am going on a journey. I shall start for Switzerland to-night."

Why! we should never blame cousin Felicita because her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old Mr. Clifford. And Felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? Poor Felix!"

She could not help feeling that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first one. And Felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! It seemed immeasurably more terrible in Phebe's own eyes. To her money had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against the affections.

Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here in the old house.

Suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. They had rung so the day he brought Felicita home after their long wedding journey. It was Friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to practise, in the days when he was churchwarden.

The funeral had been hurried on, and the stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone beside the desolate grave. Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had been pursued by a deadly enemy.

The home Roland Sefton had forfeited and Felicita had forsaken had become hers. There was deep sadness mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; and Phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart. Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe.

She never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever daughter-in-law not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased her servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion.