"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all aglow with smiles and blushes. "Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son this morning?" "Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he was going to London?" "To London!" exclaimed his mother. "Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite distinctly now." "He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange." "Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering away again into the reverie they had broken in upon. "Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother. "In a few days, of course," she answered. "But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame. "Who did you say?" inquired Felicita. "The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not said anything to him." "Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed themselves to a marble image. "Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again." They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence. "My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat. The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms above his head with a gesture of despair. "I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may get away safe. All is lost!" "What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and catching him by the arm; "what is lost?"