the room where he had spent so large a portion
of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more.

As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet
house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute
or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded
lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where
Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child
must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were
rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby
daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a
hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was
breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now
how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He
had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could
befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him.

His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow
where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him,
and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips
touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering
"Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger
another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at
another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he
murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again."

The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on
the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened
with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There
was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for
it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the
first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one
who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to
betray the misery on her son's face.

"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent.

"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in
here to see if you wanted anything."

"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter?
Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland."

"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a