took it, scarce knowing--that it was
hers.

"How do you do, Mr. Vane?" she said; "I did not expect to meet you
here."

"I was searching for the stable, to get my horse," he answered lamely.

"And your father?" she asked quickly; "I hope he is not--worse."

It was thus she supplied him, quite naturally, with an excuse for being
at Fairview. And yet her solicitude for Hilary was wholly unaffected.

"Dr. Harmon, who came from New York, has been more encouraging than I
had dared to hope," said Austen. "And, by the way, Mr. Vane believes
that you had a share in the fruit and flowers which Mr. Flint so kindly
brought. If--he had known that I were to see you, I am sure he would
have wished me to thank you."

Victoria turned, and tore a leaf from the spiraea.

"I will show you where the stables are," she said; "the path divides a
little farther on--and you might find yourself in the kitchen."

Austen smiled, and as she went on slowly, he followed her, the path not
being wide enough for them to walk abreast, his eyes caressing the stray
hairs that clustered about her neck and caught the light. It seemed so
real, and yet so unrealizable, that he should be here with her.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I did not express my gratitude as I should
have done the evening you were good enough to come up to Jabe Jenney's."

He saw her colour rise again, but she did not pause.

"Please don't say anything about it, Mr. Vane. Of course I understand
how you felt," she cried.

"Neither my father nor myself will forget that service," said Austen.

"It was nothing," answered Victoria, in a low voice. "Or, rather, it was
something I shall always be glad that I did not miss. I have seen Mr.
Vane all my life, but I never=-never really knew him until that day. I
have come to the conclusion," she added, in a lighter tone, "that the
young are not always the best judges of the old. There," she added, "is
the path that goes to the kitchen, which you probably would have taken."

He laughed. Past and future were blotted out, and he lived only in the
present. He could think of nothing but that she was here beside him.
Afterwards, cataclysms might come and welcome.

"Isn't there another place," he asked, "where I might lose my way?"

She turned and gave him one of the swift, searching looks he recalled
so well: a look the meaning of which he could not declare, save that she
seemed vainly striving to fathom something in him--as though he we