in, her eyes cast
down, a bright spot on either cheek. And while every one in the room held
their breath she crossed the floor and paused in front of Faversham.

"Mr. Faversham, I ask your pardon, that I was so rude. I--" A sob rose
in her throat, and she stopped a moment to control it. "Till the other
day--I was just a poor girl--who never had a _lira_ to spend. All that we
ate--my mother and I--we had to work for. And now--you have made me rich.
It's--it's very wonderful. I only wish"--the sob rose again--"just that
last time--my father had been kind to me. I thank you with all my heart.
But I can't take it all, you know--I _can't!_"

She looked at him appealing--almost threatening. Faversham smiled at her.

"That doesn't lie with you! One of your trustees has already signed the
deed--here comes the other." He pointed to Tatham.

"But he isn't my trustee!" insisted Felicia, the tears brimming over;
"he's--"

Tatham came up to her, and gravely took her hand.

Felicia looked at him, then at Victoria, then at the circle of amazed
faces. With a low cry of "Mother" she turned and fled from the room,
drawing Lady Tatham with her.

A little while later, Lydia, the lawyers and Faversham having departed,
found herself alone a moment in the library. In the tumult of happy
excitement which possessed her, she could not sit still. Without any
clear notion of where she was going, she wandered through the open door
into the farther room. There, with a start, and a flush, she recognized
her own drawings--five of them--in a row. So here, all the time, was her
unknown friend; and she had never guessed!

At a sound in the room behind, she turned, hoping it was Lady Tatham who
had come back to her. But she saw that it was Tatham himself. He came
into the little room, and stood silently beside her, as though wanting
her to speak first. With deep emotion she held out her hand, and wished
him joy; her gesture, her eyes, all tenderness.

"She is so lovely--so touching! She will win everybody's heart!"

He looked down upon her oddly, like some one oppressed by feelings and
thoughts beyond his own unravelling.

"She has been very unhappy," he said simply. "I think I can take care of
her."

Lydia looked at him anxiously. A sudden slight darkening seemed to
come into the day; and for one terrified moment she seemed to see
Tatham--dear, generous youth!--as the truly tragic figure in their
high mingled comedy.

Not Melrose--but Tat