r; and Felix, a
child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at
her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes
gazing into her face.

"Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month,
"how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write
to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how
soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?"

Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed
larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the
boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say.

"I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life
which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your
father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not
understand it if I told you."

"But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up
proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?"

How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back
with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and
mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was
now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able
to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he
bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to
judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had
never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who
love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that
bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless
torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it.

"But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy.

"If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and
can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood,
Felix."

"I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to
come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I
tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time
of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would
never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and
will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I
ask her.