“Well, what does it signify if you do go out of your way a little, when your legs are strong and your blood circulates vigorously?” he said cheerfully. “But the young heart _can_ get lost,” said Felicia. “I won't chop logic with you, young lady. I am trying to teach you that youth is a glorious thing and ought to be its own happiness. I suppose it is attempting to teach the unlearnable. Ah me! How beautiful it would be to be three and thirty again!” “Three and thirty! Why, that is quite old!” He looked at her with a touch of sadness and amusement, his head on one side. “I suppose it is for you. I was forgetting. To me it is youth, the full prime of a man's life, when the world is at his feet. Later on he begins to feel it is on his shoulders. But at thirty-three--I was thinking of Raine. That is his age.” “Have you heard from Mr. Chetwynd?” asked Felicia, after a longish pause. “Oh, yes. He never keeps me long without news of him. There are only the two of us.” “You seem very fond of one another,” said Felicia. “I am proud of my son, my dear, and he is foolish enough to be proud of his poor old daddy.” His voice had grown suddenly very soft, and he spoke with the simplicity of old age. His eyes looked out into the distance, their brightness veiled with a strange tenderness. Felicia was touched, felt strongly drawn to him. She lost sense of the scholar of profound learning in that of the old man leaning on his son's strong arm. And the son's manhood grew in her eyes as the father's waned. “It is not many men,” he continued musingly, “that would have given up a Christmas vacation and come all this way just to see an old, broken-down fellow like me.” Felicia stared out of the window, but she no longer saw the snow. “You must miss him dreadfully.” “I always do. We are much together in Oxford. He always gives me at least a few minutes of his day.” “How good of him. It must be beautiful for you.” “A great happiness--yes, a great happiness!” He too was looking out of the window, by Felicia's side, his hands behind his back, and likewise saw nothing. A spell of wistfulness was over them both--bound them unconsciously together. “A tender-hearted fellow,” said the old man. “Wonderfully sympathetic.” “He seems to understand everyone so.” “Yes; that is Raine's way--he gets behind externals. I have missed him sadly since he left.” “Yes,” said Felicia, softly. “And I have been wishing for him all day.” “So have I!” said Felicia, under the spell. Her tone suddenly awakened the old man. His eyes flashed into intelligence as a darkened theatre can leap into light. The girl met them, recoiled a step at their brilliance, and shrank as if a search-light had laid bare her soul. She had scarcely known what she had been saying. A quivering second. Was there time to recover? She struggled desperately. If the tears had not come, she would have won. But they rose in a flood, and she turned away her head sharply, burning with shame.