e of
speech; but Hilary, ever since the night of his son's departure, had read
in the face of his housekeeper a knowledge of his suffering, an
exultation a thousand times more maddening than the little reproaches of
language would have been. He avoided her more than ever, and must many
times have regretted bitterly the fact that he had betrayed himself to
her. As for Euphrasia, she had no notion of disclosing Hilary's torture
to his son. She was determined that the victory, when it came, should be
Austen's, and the surrender Hilary's.

"He manages to eat his meals, and gets along as common," she would reply.
"He only thinks of himself and that railroad."

But Austen read between the lines.

"Poor old Judge," he would answer; "it's because he's made that way,
Phrasie. He can't help it, any more than I can help flinging law-books on
the floor and running off to the country to have a good time. You know as
well as I do that he hasn't had much joy out of life; that he'd like to
be different, only he doesn't know how."

"I can't see that it takes much knowledge to treat a wife and son like
human beings," Euphrasia retorted; "that's only common humanity. For a
man that goes to meetin' twice a week, you'd have thought he'd have
learned something by this time out of the New Testament. He's prayed
enough in his life, goodness knows!"

Now Euphrasia's ordinarily sharp eyes were sharpened an hundred fold by
affection; and of late, at odd moments during his visits, Austen had
surprised them fixed on him with a penetration that troubled him.

"You don't seem to fancy the tarts as much as you used to," she would
remark. "Time was when you'd eat three and four at a sittin'."

"Phrasie, one of your persistent fallacies is, that I'm still a boy."

"You ain't yourself," said Euphrasia, ignoring this pleasantry, "and you
ain't been yourself for some months. I've seen it. I haven't brought you
up for nothing. If he's troubling you, don't you worry a mite. He ain't
worth it. He eats better than you do."

"I'm not worrying much about that," Austen answered, smiling. "The Judge
and I will patch it up before long--I'm sure. He's worried now over these
people who are making trouble for his railroad."

"I wish railroads had never been invented," cried Euphrasia. "It seems to
me they bring nothing but trouble. My mother used to get along pretty
well in a stage-coach."

One evening in September, when the summer days were rapidly growin