Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life.

On a Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her.

There were a vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts.

Phebe gave dramatic effect to her stories of him.

Hilda could scarcely remember him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall, handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and good.
For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had ever been attached to his name.