n she
kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday
presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I
adore her. She is my mother, you know--the mother of me, Felix; and I
lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not
know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh,
she does not look at me often."

"She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her
arms round the boy.

Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out
anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced
garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river.

"I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix
proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always
look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row
her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at
one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine
like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest
we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all
like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women.
But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up
his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my
father does not think so, I know."

"Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best
friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman,
Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has
ordered it so."

She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was,
at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother.
No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious
guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from
the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat,
with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at
ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did
the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker
of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five,
Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm.
In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, t