expect him to
begin now. Won't you set down?"

There was another chair against the low wainscoting, and Victoria drew it
over beside Hilary and sat down in it. He did not seem to notice the
action, and Euphrasia continued to stand. Standing seemed to be the
natural posture of this remarkable woman, Victoria thought--a posture of
vigilance, of defiance. A clock of one of the Austen grandfathers stood
obscurely at the back of the hall, and the measured swing of its pendulum
was all that broke the silence. This was Austen's home. It seemed
impossible for her to realize that he could be the product of this
environment--until a portrait on the opposite wall, above the stairs,
came out of the gloom and caught her eye like the glow of light. At
first, becoming aware of it with a start, she thought it a likeness of
Austen himself. Then she saw that the hair was longer, and more wavy than
his, and fell down a little over the velvet collar of a coat with a wide
lapel and brass buttons, and that the original of this portrait had worn
a stock. The face had not quite the strength of Austen's, she thought,
but a wondrous sweetness and intellect shone from it, like an expression
she had seen on his face. The chin rested on the hand, an intellectual
hand,--and the portrait brought to her mind that of a young English
statesman she had seen in the National Gallery in London.

"That's Channing Austen,--he was minister to Spain."

Victoria started. It was Euphrasia who was speaking, and unmistakable
pride was in her voice.

Fortunately for Victoria, who would not in the least have known what to
reply, steps were heard on the porch, and Euphrasia opened the door. Mr.
Rangely had returned.

"Here's the doctor, Miss Flint," he said, "and I'll wait for you
outside."

Victoria rose as young Dr. Tredway came forward. They were old friends,
and the doctor, it may be recalled, had been chiefly responsible for the
preservation of the life of Mr. Zebulun Meader.

"I have sent for you, Doctor," she said, "against instructions and on my
own responsibility. Mr. Vane is ill, although he refuses to admit it."

Dr. Tredway had a respect for Victoria and her opinions, and he knew
Hilary. He opened the door a little wider, and looked critically at Mr.
Vane.

"It's nothing but a spell," Hilary insisted. "I've had 'em before. I
suppose it's natural that they should scare the women-folks some."

"What kind of a spell was it, Mr. Vane?" asked the d