ing 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 of their efforts, that
portion of their lives which has already been inscribed on the scroll
of history--or something like it. Mr. Crewe in kilts at five; and
(prophetic picture!) with a train of cars which--so the family tradition
runs--was afterwards demolished; Mr. Crewe at fourteen, in delicate
health; this picture was taken abroad, with a long-suffering tutor who
could speak feelingly, if he would, of embr