you--you can't! I should
never allow it!"

"Yes, you would, mother! What are you afraid of? He can't kill me. It's
ridiculous. I must see my father. I will! He is getting old--he may die.
I will see him before I leave England. I don't care whether he gives us
the money or not!"

Victoria's bright eyes showed her sympathy; though she did not interfere.
But Netta shrank into herself.

"You are always such a wilful child, Felicia! You mustn't do anything
without my leave. You'll kill me if you do."

And ashen-pale, she got up and left the room. Victoria glanced at
Felicia.

"Don't do anything against your mother's will," she said gently. "You are
too young to decide these things for yourself. But, if you can, persuade
her to follow Lord Tatham's advice. He is most anxious to help you in the
best way. And he does not believe that Mr. Melrose could hurt your
grandfather."

Felicia shook her curly head, frowning.

"One cannot persuade mother--one cannot. She is obstinate--oh, so
obstinate! If it were me, I would do anything Lord Tatham asked
me!--anything in the world."

She stood with her hands behind her back, her slight figure drawn up, her
look glowing.

Victoria bent over her embroidery, smiling a little, unseen, and, in
truth, not ill pleased. Yet there was something disturbing in these
occasional outbursts. For the little Southerner's own sake, one must take
care they led to nothing serious. For really--quite apart from any other
consideration--Harry never took the smallest notice of her. And who could
know better than his mother that his thoughts were still held, still
tormented by the vision of Lydia?

Felicia slipped out of a glass door that led to the columned veranda
outside. Victoria, mindful of the girl's delicate look, hurried after her
with a fur wrap. Felicia gratefully but absently kissed her hand, and
Victoria left her to her own thoughts.

It was a sunny day, and although November was well in, there was almost
an Italian warmth in this southern loggia where roses were still
blooming. Felicia walked up and down, her gaze wandering over the
mountain landscape to the south--the spreading flanks and slopes of
the high fells, scarlet with withered fern, and capped with new-fallen
snow. Through the distant landscape she perceived the line of the stream
which ran under Flitterdale Common with its high cliff-banks, and hanging
woods, now dressed in the last richness of autumn. That distant wall of