as
if she craved her companionship. Phebe, too, was silent, the tears
dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. Her heart
was very heavy and troubled for Felicita.

"Will you go to Engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked Felicita suddenly,
but in a calm and tranquil tone.

"To Engelberg!" echoed Phebe.

"I must go there before Felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short
and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. Yet I cannot write
again until I have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably.
Sometimes, nay, often, the word Engelberg has slipped from my pen
unawares when I have tried to write; so I shall do no more work till I
have fulfilled this duty; but I will rest another few months. When I
have been to Engelberg again, for the last time, I shall be not happy,
but less miserable."

"I will go with you wherever you wish," said Phebe.

It was so great a relief to have said this much to Phebe, to have broken
through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that
Felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. The dreaded words had
been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was
postponed till spring; a reprieve to Felicita. She regained health and
strength rapidly, and returned to London so far recovered that her
physician gave her permission to return to work.

But she did not wish to take up her work again. It had long ago lost the
charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to
write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to
live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing
itself had become tedious to her. "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity!"
and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh,
in the making of many books. She had made enemies who were spiteful,
and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of
petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing
monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. The sting
itself might be trivial, but it was irritating.

Felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a
successful writer. For one person who would read a book, there were
fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who
would crowd to see a clever acrobat. As she read more she discovered
that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own
i