He ate his supper to-night with his usual appetite, which had always been sparing; and he would have eaten the same amount if the Northeastern Railroads had been going into the hands of a receiver the next day.  Often he did not exchange a word with Euphrasia between home-coming and bed-going, and this was apparently to be one of these occasions.  After supper he went, as usual, to sit on the steps of his porch, and to cut his piece of Honey Dew, which never varied a milligram.  Nine o’clock struck, and Euphrasia, who had shut up the back of the house, was on her way to bed with her lamp in her hand, when she came face to face with him in the narrow passageway.

“Where’s Austen?” he asked.

Euphrasia halted.  The lamp shook, but she raised it to the level of his eyes.

“Don’t you know?” she demanded.

“No,” he said, with unparalleled humility.

She put down the lamp on the little table that stood beside her.

“He didn’t tell you he was a-goin’?”

“No,” said Hilary.

“Then how did you know he wasn’t just buggy-ridin’?” she said.

Hilary Vane was mute.

“You’ve be’n to his room!” she exclaimed.  “You’ve seen his things are gone!”

He confessed it by his silence.  Then, with amazing swiftness and vigour for one of her age, Euphrasia seized him by the arms and shook him.

“What have you done to him?” she cried; “what have you done to him?  You sent him off.  You’ve never understood him—­you’ve never behaved like a father to him.  You ain’t worthy to have him.”  She flung herself away and stood facing Hilary at a little distance.  What a fool I was!  What a fool!  I might have known it, and I promised him.”

“Promised him?” Hilary repeated.  The shaking, the vehemence and anger, of Euphrasia seemed to have had no effect whatever on the main trend of his thoughts.

“Where has he gone?”

“You can find out for yourself,” she retorted bitterly.  “I wish on your account it was to China.  He came here this afternoon, as gentle as ever, and packed up his things, and said he was goin’ away because you was worried.  Worried!” she exclaimed scornfully.  “His worry and his trouble don’t count—­but yours.  And he made me promise to stay with you.  If it wasn’t for him,” she cried, picking up the lamp, “I’d leave you this very night.”

She swept past him, and up the narrow stairway to her bedroom.

CHAPTER XVII

BUSY DAYS AT WEDDERBURN

There is no blast so powerful, so withering, as the blast of ridicule.  Only the strongest men can withstand it, only reformers who are such in deed, and not alone in name, can snap their fingers at it, and liken it to the crackling of thorns under a pot.  Confucius and Martin Luther must have been ridiculed, Mr. Crewe reflected, and although he did not have time to assure himself on these historical points,