The old man laid his thin hand on her shoulder, and bent round to look into her face. “My dear little girl--my poor child!” he said gently, patting her shoulder. For all her shrinking, she felt the tenderness of the touch. To have withdrawn from it would have been to repulse. But it added to her wretchedness. She could not speak, only cry, with the helpless consciousness that every second's silence and every tear were issues whence oozed more and more of her secret. “Does Raine know?” whispered the old man. Then she turned quickly, her brown eyes glistening, and found speech. “He know? Know what? Oh, you must never tell him--never, never, never! He would think--and I couldn't bear him to, although he will never see me again. And, please, Mr. Chetwynd, don't think I have told you anything--I haven't. Of course, I only miss him--as every one does.” Felicia moved softly towards the door, longing for retreat. The old man followed at her side. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said, with a shadow of a smile round his lips. “I have been indiscreet, and leapt to wrong conclusions. Raine is so bright that we all miss him--equally.” She glanced at him. The smile found a watery reflection in her eyes. In another moment she was on the stairs, fleeing to the comfort of her own room. The old man, left to himself, kicked open the door of the stove, drew up a chair, and spread his hands out before the glow. “Louis Chetwynd,” he said to himself, “you are no better than an old fool.” The subject was never touched upon again, but it seemed always afterwards to be in their thoughts when together. At first Felicia was shy--felt the blood rise to her cheeks whenever the old man's bright eyes were fixed upon her. But her involuntary admission had stirred a great tenderness in his heart. Somehow he had always thought sadly of the possibility of Raine marrying, although he had urged him to it many times. Up to now he had been the first--or thought he had, which comes to the same thing--in Raine's affections, and he could not yield that first place without a pang. And it would be to a woman not good enough for Raine; that was certain. If he could only choose for him the paragon that was his equal, then the surrender would be less hard. But Raine would choose for himself. It was a way even the most loving of sons had--one of the perversities of the scheme of things. Now, Felicia's confession and his own feelings towards her supplied him with a happy solution to this vexed question. Why should not Raine marry Felicia?