s the dearest friend I ever
had!"

The sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. He
could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a
certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a
saint, proved no other than a rogue.

It was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long
that Phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort
him by her mute sympathy. But he took no notice of her silent fellowship
in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one
could share it.

"I must give up Alice!" he groaned at last.

"No, no!" said Phebe. "I told Canon Pascal all, and he does not say so.
It is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some
day."

"Does he know all?" cried Felix. "Is it possible he knows all, and will
let me love Alice still? I think I could bear anything if that is true.
But, oh! how could I offer to her a name stained like mine?"

"Nay, the name was saved by his death," answered Phebe sadly. "There are
only three who knew he was guilty--Mr. Clifford, and your mother, and I.
If he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a
convict prison; I suppose he would; but his death saved him and you.
Down in Riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you
there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still
as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. It Was covered up
skilfully, Felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three."

"Alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said
falteringly.

"Ah! how like that is to Canon Pascal!" answered Phebe; "he will not
tell Alice; no, she will never know, nor Hilda. Why should they be told?
But he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which
drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death.
And his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother.
He will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and
making you and Alice happy."

"I never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "I never thought of such a
sorrow as this."

"It was the sorrow that fell to Christ's lot," she answered; "the burden
of other people's sins."

"Phebe," he said, "if I felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and I
did feel it, how can I bear now to remember the horrible degradation of
the man who told me of my father's sin? It was