Austen, finding himself in the square, looked at his watch.  It was four o’clock.  He made his way under the maples to the house in Hanover Street, halted for a moment contemplatively before the familiar classic pillars of its porch, took a key from his pocket, and (unprecedented action!) entered by the front door.  Climbing to the attic, he found two valises—­one of which he had brought back from Pepper County—­and took them to his own room.  They held, with a little crowding, most of his possessions, including a photograph of Sarah Austen, which he left on the bureau to the last.  Once or twice he paused in his packing to gaze at the face, striving to fathom the fleeting quality of her glance which the photograph had so strangely caught.  In that glance nature had stamped her enigma—­for Sarah Austen was a child of nature.  Hers was the gentle look of wild things—­but it was more; it was the understanding of—­the unwritten law of creation, the law by which the flowers grow, and wither; the law by which the animal springs upon its prey, and, unerring, seeks its mate; the law of the song of the waters, and the song of the morning stars; the law that permits evil and pain and dumb, incomprehensible suffering; the law that floods at sunset the mountain lands with colour and the soul with light; and the law that rends the branches in the blue storm.  Of what avail was anger against it, or the puny rage of man?  Hilary Vane, not recognizing it, had spent his force upon it, like a hawk against a mountain wall, but Austen looked at his mother’s face and understood.  In it was not the wisdom of creeds and cities, but the unworldly wisdom which comprehends and condones.

His packing finished, with one last glance at the room Austen went downstairs with his valises and laid them on the doorstep.  Then he went to the stable and harnessed Pepper, putting into the buggy his stable blanket and halter and currycomb, and, driving around to the front of the house, hitched the horse at the stone post, and packed the valises in the back of the buggy.  After that he walked slowly to the back of the house and looked in at the kitchen window.  Euphrasia, her thin arms bare to the elbow, was bending over a wash-tub.  He spoke her name, and as she lifted her head a light came into her face which seemed to make her young again.  She dried her hands hastily on her apron as she drew towards him.  He sprang through the window, and patted her on the back—­his usual salutation.  And as she raised her eyes to his (those ordinarily sharp eyes of Euphrasia’s), they shone with an admiration she had accorded to no other human being since he had come into the world.  Terms of endearment she had, characteristically, never used, she threw her soul into the sounding of his name.

“Off to the hills, Austen?  I saw you a-harnessing of Pepper.”

“Phrasie,” he said, still patting her, “I’m going to the country for a while.”

“To the country?” she repeated.