And yet the very contradiction of her name, Victoria joined with Flint, seemed to proclaim that she did not belong to her father or to the Rose of Sharon.  Austen permitted himself to dwell, as he descended the mountain in the gathering darkness, upon the fancy of the springing of a generation of ideals from a generation of commerce which boded well for the Republic.  And Austen Vane, in common with that younger and travelled generation, thought largely in terms of the Republic.  Pepper County and Putnam County were all one to him—­pieces of his native land.  And as such, redeemable.

It was long past the supper hour when he reached the house in Hanover Street; but Euphrasia, who many a time in days gone by had fared forth into the woods to find Sarah Austen, had his supper hot for him.  Afterwards he lighted his pipe and went out into the darkness, and presently perceived a black figure seated meditatively on the granite doorstep.

“Is that you, Judge?” said Austen.

The Honourable Hilary grunted in response.

“Be’n on another wild expedition, I suppose.”

“I went up Sawanec to stretch my legs a little,” Austen answered, sitting down beside his father.

“Funny,” remarked the Honourable Hilary, “I never had this mania for stretchin’ my legs after I was grown.”

“Well,” said Austen, “I like to go into the woods and climb the hills and get aired out once in a while.”

“I heard of your gettin’ aired out yesterday, up Tunbridge way,” said the Honourable Hilary.

“I supposed you would hear of it,” answered Austen.

“I was up there to-day.  Gave Mr. Flint your pass did you?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t see fit to mention it to me first—­did you?  Said you were going up to thank him for it.”

Austen considered this.

“You have put me in the wrong, Judge,” he replied after a little.  “I made that remark ironically.  I I am afraid we cannot agree on the motive which prompted me.”

“Your conscience a little finer than your father’s—­is it?”

“No,” said Austen, “I don’t honestly think it is.  I’ve thought a good deal in the last few years about the difference in our ways of looking at things.  I believe that two men who try to be honest may conscientiously differ.  But I also believe that certain customs have gradually grown up in railroad practice which are more or less to be deplored from the point of view of the honour of the profession.  I think they are not perhaps —­realized even by the eminent men in the law.”

“Humph!” said the Honourable Hilary.  But he did not press his son for the enumeration of these customs.  After all the years he had disapproved of Austen’s deeds it seemed strange indeed to be called to account by the prodigal for his own.  Could it be that this boy whom he had so often chastised took a clearer view of practical morality than himself?  It was preposterous.  But why the uneasiness of the past few years?  Why had he more than once during that period, for the first time in his life, questioned a hitherto absolute satisfaction in his position of chief counsel for the Northeastern Railroads?  Why had he hesitated to initiate his son into many of the so-called duties of a railroad lawyer?  Austen had never verbally arraigned those duties until to-night.