"Can't think what on earth they would have done, if they hadn't come across Miss Valentine." "If not in that way, they would have been cared for in some other way." "But I say!" broke out Felix. "We've no right! I hate to be indebted to strangers." "We are all children of one Father; bound by close family ties. Is it so hard, viewed in that light?" "Cecilia would never submit, if she could help it." "But if she cannot? Perhaps she has that lesson to learn. Some day it may be in your power to repay the kindness. At present you can only accept it, and be grateful." Felix had to accept it; but he was far from feeling grateful. "Is Lettice never to come to me again?" Cecilia asked querulously of Prudence, at the very hour when Felix sat with Mr. Kelly at the Vicarage breakfast table. "It is so long since I have seen the child! Does she not care? Felix would not treat me so." "She will come soon. She was better yesterday, but quiet is needed. Poor little Lettice cares far too much. If we allowed it, she would come this moment." "The days are so long—and I am alone. None of my own people are with me. Only strangers." "Am I quite a stranger still?" "No. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. But I seem to be cut off from everybody." "Except One—who is always near. Never cut off from Him." Cecilia stirred uneasily. "Somebody else said so. I forget who. So many voices have come to me, one time and another. I cannot always distinguish them. My mother's voice for one; and it brought back things I had forgotten. But I do not talk. It is not my way. I told Mr. Kelly so." "Mr. Kelly!" "He has a Church in Brighton. I do not care for him; though he means well." A red spot rose to either of Prue's cheeks, and there remained. She half said, "What Mr. Kelly?" but checked herself. "He would not let me alone. People will not, I do not choose to be interfered with; and he interfered. Still, of course he was kind. He found employment for Felix; and he came to see me. He would have come oftener, if I had allowed it. But I cannot talk of myself to anybody and everybody." "The less we talk of ourselves the better, perhaps," suggested Prue. "He is a clergyman, then?" "Yes. We went to his Church. He thought himself bound to put questions to me about myself. Perhaps he was, but I was not bound to answer them. As if—" and a pause. "But sometimes—now—" another pause. "Sometimes now, you would wish to see him again, perhaps. Is that it?" The red spots deepened as Prue spoke. "No, not exactly. I did not mean that, exactly. One cannot always explain . . . I want Lettice, and they will not let her come. It is cruel—so ill as I am." "Lettice loves you dearly." Prue could have clung to the other subject, but she would not. "Well, yes—perhaps. She has always been with me,—always—in those old days. Past now! They can never come back!" "The past does not come back. It is always going on to something fresh; until we reach Home."