n he had come up to Fairview and she was
standing on the lawn, and she had looked at him without recognition;
she had not, then, been able to bring herself to bow to him; to her
childhood distaste had been added the deeper resentment of Austen's
wrongs. Her early instincts about Hilary had been vindicated, for he had
treated his son abominably and driven Austen from his mother's home.
To misunderstand and maltreat Austen Vane, of all people Austen, whose
consideration for his father had been what it had! Could it be that
Hilary felt remorse? Could it be that he loved Austen in some peculiar
manner all his own?

Victoria knew now--so strangely--that the man beside her was capable of
love, and she had never felt that way about Hilary Vane. And her mind
was confused, and her heart was troubled and wrung. Insight flashed upon
her of the terrible loneliness of a life surrounded by outstretched,
loving arms to which one could not fly; scenes from a famous classic she
had read with a favourite teacher at school came to her, and she
knew that she was the witness of a retribution, of a suffering beyond
conception of a soul prepared for suffering,--not physical suffering,
but of that torture which is the meaning of hell.

However, there was physical suffering. It came and went, and at such
moments she saw the traces of it in the tightening of his lips,
and longed with womanly intuition to alleviate it. She had not
spoken--although she could have cried aloud; she knew not what to say.
And then suddenly she reached out and touched his hand. Nor could she
have accounted for the action.

"Are you in much pain?" she asked.

She felt him tremble.

"No," he said; "it's only a spell--I've had 'em before. I--I can drive
in a few minutes."

"And do you think," she asked, "that I would allow you to go the rest of
the way alone?"

"I guess I ought to thank you for comin' with me," he said.

Victoria looked at him and smiled. And it was an illuminating smile for
her as well as for Hilary. Suddenly, by that strange power of sympathy
which the unselfish possess, she understood the man, understood Austen's
patience with him and affection for him. Suddenly she had pierced the
hard layers of the outer shell, and had heard the imprisoned spirit
crying with a small persistent voice,--a spirit stifled for many years
and starved--and yet it lived and struggled still.

Yes, and that spirit itself must have felt her own reaching out to
it--w