nearer
to the fire.

"I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said.

"And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh! Phebe, do not you lose heart
and courage, like me. You have always seemed in the sunshine, and I have
looked up to you and felt cheered. Don't come down into the darkness to
me."

Phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. Until
now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult
to decide upon the right or the wrong. But here was come a coil. The
long years had reconciled her to Roland's death, and made the memory of
him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours
in the silent depths of her loyal heart. But he was alive again, with
no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could
reinstate him in his old position. And Felicita? Oh! what a cruel,
unwomanly wrong Felicita had been guilty of! She could not command her
voice to speak again.

"I must go," said Felicita, at last. "I wish I had not invited visitors
for to-night."

"I cannot come in this evening," Phebe answered; "but Felix is there,
and Canon Pascal is coming. You will do very well without me."

She breathed more freely when Felicita was gone. The dimly-lighted
studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had
painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left
them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her
agitated spirit now she was alone. She moved slowly about, putting
everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more
orderly as she did so. When all was done she opened the outer door
stealthily, and peeped out. Yes; he was there, leaning against the
railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. Carriages
were driving up and setting down Felicita's guests. Phebe's heart cried
out against the contrast between the lives of these two. She longed to
run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the
November night. But what good could she do? she asked bitterly. She did
not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. The same roof
could not cover him and Felicita, without unspeakable pain to him.

It was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the
last light was put out. That was in Phebe's bedroom, and once again she
looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the
general dark