on the railroad. I thought that was a
sort of a queer thing for Flint's daughter to do, but Austen didn't seem
to look at it that way. He talked to her after the show was over."

At this point Euphrasia could contain herself no longer, and in her
excitement she slipped off the edge of the chair and on to her feet.

"Flint's daughter?" she cried; "Augustus P. Flint's daughter?"

Tom looked at her in amazement.

"Didn't you know who it was?" he stammered. But Euphrasia was not
listening.

"I've seen her," she was saying; "I've seen her ridin' through Ripton in
that little red wagon, drivin' herself, with a coachman perched up beside
her. Flint's daughter!" Euphrasia became speechless once more, the
complications opened up being too vast for intelligent comment.
Euphrasia, however, grasped some of the problems which Austen had had to
face. Moreover, she had learned what she had come for, and the obvious
thing to do now was to go home and reflect. So, without further ceremony,
she walked to the door and opened it, and turned again with her hand on
the knob. "Look here, Tom Gaylord," she said, "if you tell Austen I was
here, I'll never forgive you. I don't believe you've got any more sense
than to do it."

And with these words she took her departure, ere the amazed Mr. Gaylord
had time to show her out. Half an hour elapsed before he opened his
letters.

When she arrived home in Hanover Street it was nine o'clock--an hour well
on in the day for Euphrasia. Unlocking the kitchen door, she gave a
glance at the stove to assure herself that it had not been misbehaving,
and went into the passage on her way up-stairs to take off her gown
before sitting down to reflect upon the astonishing thing she had heard.
Habit had so crystallized in Euphrasia that no news, however amazing,
could have shaken it. But in the passage she paused; an unwonted, or
rather untimely, sound reached her ears, a sound which came from the
front of the house--and at nine o'clock in the morning! Had Austen been
at home, Euphrasia would have thought nothing of it. In her remembrance
Hilary Vane, whether he returned from a journey or not, had never been
inside the house at that hour on a week-day; and, unlike the gentleman in
"La Vie de Boheme," Euphrasia did not have to be reminded of the Sabbath.

Perhaps Austen had returned! Or perhaps it was a burglar! Euphrasia,
undaunted, ran through the darkened front hall to where the graceful
banister ended in