han he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "My poor
mother!" he called her. Never, before he learned the secret burden she
had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as
often as he thought of her now his heart said, "My poor mother!"

As soon as Canon Pascal returned to England Felix took a day's holiday,
and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in Essex, where he had spent
the greater portion of his boyhood. Only a few years separated him from
that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months
had driven it into the far background. He almost smiled at the
recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared
his love for Alice. How far dearer to him she was now than then! The one
letter he had received from her, written in Switzerland, and telling him
in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever
one of his most precious treasures. But he was not going to share his
blemished name with her. He had had nothing worthy of her, or of his
father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the
shame he had inherited; and now? He must never more think of her as his
wife.

She was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for
her. It was Canon Pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight
on to his well-known study. He was busy in the preparation of next
Sunday's sermons, but at the sight of Felix's dejected, unsmiling face,
he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched
out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might
have given to a drowning man.

"What is it, my son?" he asked.

There was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to
him, that Felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less
heavily on his bruised spirit. He stood a little behind Canon Pascal,
with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before
when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for
some boyish fault.

"You have been like a true father to me, and I come to tell you a great
trouble," he began in a tremulous voice.

"I know it, my boy," replied Canon Pascal; "you have found out how true
it is, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are
set on edge.' Ah! Felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old
Book."

"You know it?" stammered Felix.

"Phebe told me," he interrupted,