and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion.
Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to
her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit
her to be.

"Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita.

"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame.

"I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita.

But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it
beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference
of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from
behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore.
There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious
eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda
played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and
worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight,
though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery
rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen,
Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and
mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's
condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was
more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the
drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless
sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such
as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their
mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done
but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved.

But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the
fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar
off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and
before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A
great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently.
Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news
of Roland's death.

The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue
eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple,
unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she
stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come
to comfort and support, and Felicita