the
sterner lines of character. And suddenly there was a new bond between the
two. So used are the young to the acceptance of the sacrifice of the old
that they lose sight of that sacrifice. But Austen saw now, in a flash,
the years of Euphrasia's self-denial, the years of memories, the years of
regrets for that which might have been.

"Phrasie," he said, laying a hand on hers, which rested on the arm of the
chair, I was only joking, you know."

"I know, I know," Euphrasia answered hastily, and turned and looked into
his face searchingly. Her eyes were undimmed, and the light was still in
them which revealed a soul of which he had had no previous knowledge.

"I know you was, dear. I never told that to a living being except your
mother. He's dead now--he never knew. But I told her--I couldn't help it.
She had a way of drawing things out of you, and you just couldn't resist.
I'll never forget that day she came in here and looked at me and took my
hand--same as you have it now. She wasn't married then. I'll never forget
the sound of her voice as she said, 'Euphrasia, tell me about it.'" (Here
Euphrasia's own voice trembled.) "I told her, just as I'm telling
you,--because I couldn't help it. Folks, had to tell her things."

She turned her hand and clasped his tightly with her own thin fingers.

"And oh, Austen," she cried, "I want so that you should be happy! She was
so unhappy, it doesn't seem right that you should be, too."

"I shall be, Phrasie," he said; "you mustn't worry about that."

For a while the only sound in the room was the ticking of the old clock
with the quaint, coloured picture on its panel. And then, with a movement
which, strangely, was an acute reminder of a way Victoria had, Euphrasia
turned and searched his face once more.

"You're not happy," she said.

He could not put this aside--nor did he wish to. Her own confidence had
been so simple, so fine, so sure of his sympathy, that he felt it would
be unworthy to equivocate; the confessions of the self-reliant are sacred
things. Yes, and there had been times when he had longed to unburden
himself; but he had had no intimate on this plane, and despite the great
sympathy between them--that Euphrasia might understand had never occurred
to him. She had read his secret.

In that instant Euphrasia, with the instinct which love lends to her sex,
had gone farther; indignation seized her--and the blame fell upon the
woman. Austen's words, unconsciously,