growing fainter, and her mind refused to work. Hanover Street,
Mr. Jenney's farm-house, were unrealities too. Ten minutes later--if she
had marked the interval--came the sound of wheels again, this time
growing louder. Then she heard a voice in the hall, her father's voice.

"Towers, who was that?"

"A young gentleman, sir, who drove home with Miss Victoria. I didn't get
his name, sir."

"Has Miss Victoria retired?"

"She's in the library, sir. Here are some telegrams, Mr. Flint."

Victoria heard her father tearing open the telegrams and walking towards
the library with slow steps as he read them. She did not stir from her
place before the fire. She saw him enter and, with a characteristic
movement which had become almost habitual of late, crush the telegrams in
front of him with both hands.

"Well, Victoria?" he said.

"Well, father?"

It was characteristic of him, too, that he should momentarily drop the
conversation, unravel the ball of telegrams, read one, crush them once
more,--a process that seemed to give him relief. He glanced at his
daughter--she had not moved. Whatever Mr. Flint's original character may
have been in his long-forgotten youth on the wind-swept hill farm in
Truro, his methods of attack lacked directness now; perhaps a long
business and political experience were responsible for this trait.

"Your mother didn't come down to dinner, I suppose."

"No," said Victoria.

Simpson tells me the young bull got loose and cut himself badly. He says
it's the fault of the Eben Fitch you got me to hire."

"I don't believe it was Eben's fault--Simpson doesn't like him," Victoria
replied.

"Simpson tells me Fitch drinks."

"Let a man get a bad name," said Victoria, "and Simpson will take care
that he doesn't lose it." The unexpected necessity of defending one of
her proteges aroused her. "I've made it a point to see Eben every day for
the last three months, and he hasn't touched a drop. He's one of the best
workers we have on the place."

"I've got too much on my mind to put up with that kind of thing," said
Mr. Flint, "and I won't be worried here on the place. I can get capable
men to tend cattle, at least. I have to put up with political rascals who
rob and deceive me as soon as my back is turned, I have to put up with
inefficiency and senility, but I won't have it at home."

"Fitch will be transferred to the gardener if you think best," she said.

It suddenly occurred to Victoria, in the li