me than with any other
citizen of the State of my age who thinks as I do."

"Oh, yes, there is," said Victoria; "he regards you as a person whose
opinion has some weight. I am sure of that. He thinks of you as a person
of convictions--and he has heard things about you. You talked to him
once," she went on, astonished at her own boldness, "and made him angry.
Why don't you talk to him again?" she cried, seeing that Austen was
silent. "I am sure that what you said about the change of public opinion
in the State would appeal to him. And oh, don't quarrel with him! You
have a faculty of differing with people without quarrelling with them. My
father has so many cares, and he tries so hard to do right as he sees it.
You must remember that he was a poor farmer's son, and that he began to
work at fourteen in Brampton, running errands for a country printer. He
never had any advantages except those he made for himself, and he had to
fight his way in a hard school against men who were not always
honourable. It is no wonder that he sometimes takes--a material view of
things. But he is reasonable and willing to listen to what other men have
to say, if he is not antagonized."

"I understand," said Austen, who thought Mr. Flint blest in his advocate.
Indeed, Victoria's simple reference to her father's origin had touched
him deeply. "I understand, but I cannot go to him. There is every reason
why I cannot," he added, and she knew that he was speaking with
difficulty, as under great emotion.

"But if he should send for you?" she asked. She felt his look fixed upon
her with a strange intensity, and her heart leaped as she dropped her
eyes.

"If Mr. Flint should send for me," he answered slowly, "I would come--and
gladly. But it must be of his own free will."

Victoria repeated the words over to herself, "It must be of his own free
will," waiting until she should be alone to seek their full
interpretation. She turned, and looked across the lawn at Fairview House
shining in the light. In another minute they had drawn up before the open
door.

"Won't you come in--and wait for Mr. Jenney?" she asked.

He gazed down into her face, searchingly, and took her hand.

"Good night," he said; "Mr. Jenney is not far behind. I think--I think I
should like the walk."

CHAPTER XX

MR. CREWE: AN APPRECIATION (1)

It is given to some rare mortals--with whom fame precedes grey hairs or
baldness to read, while still on the rising tide o