a life surrounded by outstretched, loving
arms to which one could not fly; scenes from a famous classic she had
read with a favourite teacher at school came to her, and she knew that
she was the witness of a retribution, of a suffering beyond conception of
a soul prepared for suffering,--not physical suffering, but of that
torture which is the meaning of hell.

However, there was physical suffering. It came and went, and at such
moments she saw the traces of it in the tightening of his lips, and
longed with womanly intuition to alleviate it. She had not spoken
--although she could have cried aloud; she knew not what to say. And then
suddenly she reached out and touched his hand. Nor could she have
accounted for the action.

"Are you in much pain?" she asked.

She felt him tremble.

"No," he said; "it's only a spell--I've had 'em before. I--I can drive in
a few minutes."

"And do you think," she asked, "that I would allow you to go the rest of
the way alone?"

"I guess I ought to thank you for comin' with me," he said.

Victoria looked at him and smiled. And it was an illuminating smile for
her as well as for Hilary. Suddenly, by that strange power of sympathy
which the unselfish possess, she understood the man, understood Austen's
patience with him and affection for him. Suddenly she had pierced the
hard layers of the outer shell, and had heard the imprisoned spirit
crying with a small persistent voice,--a spirit stifled for many years
and starved--and yet it lived and struggled still.

Yes, and that spirit itself must have felt her own reaching out to it
--who can, say? And how it must have striven again for utterance--

"It was good of you to come," he said.

"It was only common humanity," she answered, touching the horse.

"Common humanity," he repeated. "You'd have done it for anybody along the
road, would you?"

At this remark, so characteristic of Hilary, Victoria, hesitated. She
understood it now. And yet she hesitated to give him an answer that was
hypocritical.

"I have known you all my life, Mr. Vane, and you are a very old friend of
my father's."

"Old," he repeated, "yes, that's it. I'm ready for the scrap-heap
--better have let me lie, Victoria."

Victoria started. A new surmise had occurred to her upon which she did
not like to dwell.

"You have worked too hard, Mr. Vane--you need a rest. And I have been
telling father that, too. You both need a rest."

He shook his head.

"I'll n