e Pascals had
children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor
for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children
should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met
some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from
the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant
freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among
them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find
companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no
pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to
this country parsonage.

That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could
never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who
loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a
widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought
for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She
could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now
the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was
for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that
he had fallen into crime.

"I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel
more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from
us? It would be different if my father had not died."

"Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how
terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland
Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had
been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret
soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing
his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time.
Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was
the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her
some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex
her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death.

CHAPTER XXV.

DEAD TO THE WORLD.

In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of
a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was
impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the
fever, as he had no home or friends to g