“Not a woman!” cried Euphrasia, horror-stricken at the very thought.  “He hasn’t took it into his head after all these years—­”

“No,” said Austen, laughing, “no, no.  It’s not quite as bad as that, but it’s pretty bad.”

“In Heaven’s name, what is it?” she demanded.  “Reformers,” said Austen.

“Reformers?” she repeated.  “What might they be?”

“Well,” answered Austen, “you might call them a new kind of caterpillar —­only they feed on corporations instead of trees.”

Euphrasia shook her head vigorously.

“Go ’long,” she exclaimed.  “When you talk like that I never can follow you, Austen.  If Hilary has any worries, I guess he brought ’em on himself.  I never knew him to fail.”

“Ambitious and designing persons are making trouble for his railroad.”

“Well, I never took much stock in that railroad,” said Euphrasia, with emphasis.  “I never was on it but an engine gave out, and the cars was jammed, and it wasn’t less than an hour late.  And then they’re eternally smashin’ folks or runnin’ ’em down.  You served ’em right when you made ’em pay that Meader man six thousand dollars, and I told Hilary so.”  She paused, and stared at Austen fixedly as a thought came into her head.  “You ain’t leavin’ him because of this trouble, are you, Austen?”

“Phrasie,” he said, “I—­I don’t want to quarrel with him now.  I think it would be easy to quarrel with him.”

“You mean him quarrel with you,” returned Euphrasia.  “I’d like to see him!  If he did, it wouldn’t take me long to pack up and leave.”

“That’s just it.  I don’t want that to happen.  And I’ve had a longing to go out and pay a little visit to Jabe up in the hills, and drive his colts for him.  You see,” he said, “I’ve got a kind of affection for the Judge.”

Euphrasia looked at him, and her lips trembled.

“He don’t deserve it,” she declared, “but I suppose he’s your father.”

“He can’t get out of that,” said Austen.

“I’d like to see him try it,” said Euphrasia.  “Come in soon, Austen,” she whispered, “come in soon.”

She stood on the lawn and watched him as he drove away, and he waved good-by to her over the hood of the buggy.  When he was out of sight she lifted her head, gave her eyes a vigorous brush with her checked apron, and went back to her washing.

It was not until Euphrasia had supper on the table that Hilary Vane came home, and she glanced at him sharply as he took his usual seat.  It is a curious fact that it is possible for two persons to live together for more than a third of a century, and at the end of that time understand each other little better than at the beginning.  The sole bond between Euphrasia and Hilary was that of Sarah Austen and her son.  Euphrasia never knew when Hilary was tired, or when he was cold, or hungry, or cross, although she provided for all these emergencies.  Her service to him was unflagging, but he had never been under the slightest delusion that it was not an inheritance from his wife.  There must have been some affection between Mr. Vane and his housekeeper, hidden away in the strong boxes of both but up to the present this was only a theory—­not quite as probable as that about the inhabitants of Mars.