Out of Euphrasia’s eyes, as she gazed at the mantel-shelf, shone the light of undying fires within—­fires which at a touch could blaze forth after endless years, transforming the wrinkled face, softening the sterner lines of character.  And suddenly there was a new bond between the two.  So used are the young to the acceptance of the sacrifice of the old that they lose sight of that sacrifice.  But Austen saw now, in a flash, the years of Euphrasia’s self-denial, the years of memories, the years of regrets for that which might have been.

“Phrasie,” he said, laying a hand on hers, which rested on the arm of the chair, I was only joking, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Euphrasia answered hastily, and turned and looked into his face searchingly.  Her eyes were undimmed, and the light was still in them which revealed a soul of which he had had no previous knowledge.

“I know you was, dear.  I never told that to a living being except your mother.  He’s dead now—­he never knew.  But I told her—­I couldn’t help it.  She had a way of drawing things out of you, and you just couldn’t resist.  I’ll never forget that day she came in here and looked at me and took my hand—­same as you have it now.  She wasn’t married then.  I’ll never forget the sound of her voice as she said, ‘Euphrasia, tell me about it.’” (Here Euphrasia’s own voice trembled.) “I told her, just as I’m telling you,—­because I couldn’t help it.  Folks, had to tell her things.”

She turned her hand and clasped his tightly with her own thin fingers.

“And oh, Austen,” she cried, “I want so that you should be happy!  She was so unhappy, it doesn’t seem right that you should be, too.”

“I shall be, Phrasie,” he said; “you mustn’t worry about that.”

For a while the only sound in the room was the ticking of the old clock with the quaint, coloured picture on its panel.  And then, with a movement which, strangely, was an acute reminder of a way Victoria had, Euphrasia turned and searched his face once more.

“You’re not happy,” she said.

He could not put this aside—­nor did he wish to.  Her own confidence had been so simple, so fine, so sure of his sympathy, that he felt it would be unworthy to equivocate; the confessions of the self-reliant are sacred things.  Yes, and there had been times when he had longed to unburden himself; but he had had no intimate on this plane, and despite the great sympathy between them—­that Euphrasia might understand had never occurred to him.  She had read his secret.

In that instant Euphrasia, with the instinct which love lends to her sex, had gone farther; indignation seized her—­and the blame fell upon the woman.  Austen’s words, unconsciously, were an answer to her thoughts.

“It isn’t anybody’s fault but my own,” he said.