er into some semblance of
natural feeling. And this was Austen's home! It was to this house, made
gloomy by these people, that he had returned every night! Infinitely
depressed, she felt that she must take some action, or cry aloud.

"Mr. Vane," she said, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "I think you
ought, at least, to lie down for a little while. Isn't there a sofa
in--in the parlour?" she asked Euphrasia.

"You can't get him to do anything," Euphrasia replied, with decision;
"he'll die some day for want of a little common sense. I shouldn't
wonder if he was took on soon."

"Oh!" cried Victoria. She could think of no words to answer this remark.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Euphrasia continued. "He fell down the stairs
here not long ago, and went right on about his business. He's never paid
any attention to anybody, and I guess it's a mite late to expect him to
begin now. Won't you set down?"

There was another chair against the low wainscoting, and Victoria drew
it over beside Hilary and sat down in it. He did not seem to notice
the action, and Euphrasia continued to stand. Standing seemed to be the
natural posture of this remarkable woman, Victoria thought--a posture of
vigilance, of defiance. A clock of one of the Austen grandfathers
stood obscurely at the back of the hall, and the measured swing of its
pendulum was all that broke the silence. This was Austen's home. It
seemed impossible for her to realize that he could be the product of
this environment--until a portrait on the opposite wall, above the
stairs, came out of the gloom and caught her eye like the glow of light.
At first, becoming aware of it with a start, she thought it a likeness
of Austen himself. Then she saw that the hair was longer, and more wavy
than his, and fell down a little over the velvet collar of a coat with a
wide lapel and brass buttons, and that the original of this portrait
had worn a stock. The face had not quite the strength of Austen's, she
thought, but a wondrous sweetness and intellect shone from it, like an
expression she had seen on his face. The chin rested on the hand, an
intellectual hand,--and the portrait brought to her mind that of a young
English statesman she had seen in the National Gallery in London.

"That's Channing Austen,--he was minister to Spain."

Victoria started. It was Euphrasia who was speaking, and unmistakable
pride was in her voice.

Fortunately for Victoria, who would not in the least have known