ed to her lap, and she sat staring at
the old clock on the kitchen shelf.

"He never asked me," she said, simply.

Austen was silent. The answer seemed to recall, with infinite pathos,
Euphrasia's long-lost youth, and he had not thought of youth as a
quality which could ever have pertained to her. She must have been young
once, and fresh, and full of hope for herself; she must have known,
long ago, something of what he now felt, something of the joy and
pain, something of the inexpressible, never ceasing yearning for the
fulfilment of a desire that dwarfed all others. Euphrasia had been
denied that fulfilment. And he--would he, too, be denied it?

Out of Euphrasia's eyes, as she gazed at the mantel-shelf, shone the
light of undying fires within--fires which at a touch could blaze forth
after endless years, transforming the wrinkled face, softening 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 th