ame back into the eyes at
the summons, and dominance into the voice, although he breathed heavily.

"No, you're not," he said; "no, you're not. I'm going to Ripton--do you
understand? I'll be all right in a minute, and I'll take the lines."

Victoria, when she got over her astonishment at this, reflected quickly.
She glanced at him, and the light of his expression was already fading.
There was some reason why he did not wish to go back to Fairview, and
common sense told her that agitation was not good for him; besides, they
would have to telephone to Ripton for a physician, and it was quicker to
drive there. Quicker to drive in her own runabout, did she dare to try
to move him into it. She made up her mind.

"Please follow on behind with that trap," she called out to Rangely;
"I'm going to Ripton."

He nodded understandingly, admiringly, and Victoria started Hilary's
horse out of the bushes towards the entrance way. From time to time she
let her eyes rest upon him anxiously.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "yes. I'm all right. I'll be able to drive in a minute."

But the minutes passed, and he made no attempt to take the reins.
Victoria had drawn the whalebone whip from its socket, and was urging on
the horse as fast as humanity would permit; and the while she was aware
that Hilary's look was fixed upon her--in fact, never left her. Once
or twice, in spite of her anxiety to get him home, Victoria blushed
faintly, as she wondered what he was thinking about.

And all the while she asked herself what it was that had brought him
to this condition. Victoria knew sufficient of life and had visited
hospitals enough to understand that mental causes were generally
responsible for such breakdowns--Hilary had had a shock. She remembered
how in her childhood he had been the object of her particular animosity;
how she used to put out her tongue at him, and imitate his manner, and
how he had never made the slightest attempt to conciliate her; most
people of this sort are sensitive to the instincts of children; but
Hilary had not been. She remembered--how long ago it seemed now!--the
day she had given him, in deviltry, the clipping about Austen shooting
Mr. Blodgett.

The Hilary Vane who sat beside her to-day was not the same man. It was
unaccountable, but he was not. Nor could this changed estimate of him be
attributed to her regard for Austen, for she recalled a day only a
few months since--in June--whe