“So you think Austen’s in love?” he demanded.

Euphrasia sat up straighter, if anything.

“I didn’t say anything of the kind,” she returned.

“He wouldn’t tell me, you know,” said Tom; “I can only guess at it.”

“And the—­lady?” said Euphrasia, craftily.

“I’m up a tree there, too.  All I know is that he took her sleigh-riding one afternoon at the capital, and wouldn’t tell me who he was going to take.  And then she fell off her horse down at East Tunbridge Station—­”

“Fell off her horse!” echoed Euphrasia, an accident comparable in her mind to falling off a roof.  What manner of young woman was this who fell off horses?

“She wasn’t hurt,” Tom continued, “and she rode the beast home.  He was a wild one, I can tell you, and she’s got pluck.  That’s the first time I ever met her, although I had often seen her and thought she was a stunner to look at.  She talked as if she took an interest in Austen.”

An exact portrayal of Euphrasia’s feelings at this description of the object of Austen’s affections is almost impossible.  A young woman who was a stunner, who rode wild horses and fell off them and rode them again, was beyond the pale not only of Euphrasia’s experience but of her imagination likewise.  And this hoyden had talked as though she took an interest in Austen!  Euphrasia was speechless.

“The next time I saw her,” said Tom, “was when she came down here to listen to Humphrey Crewe’s attacks on the railroad.  I thought that was a sort of a queer thing for Flint’s daughter to do, but Austen didn’t seem to look at it that way.  He talked to her after the show was over.”

At this point Euphrasia could contain herself no longer, and in her excitement she slipped off the edge of the chair and on to her feet.

“Flint’s daughter?” she cried; “Augustus P. Flint’s daughter?”

Tom looked at her in amazement.

“Didn’t you know who it was?” he stammered.  But Euphrasia was not listening.

“I’ve seen her,” she was saying; “I’ve seen her ridin’ through Ripton in that little red wagon, drivin’ herself, with a coachman perched up beside her.  Flint’s daughter!” Euphrasia became speechless once more, the complications opened up being too vast for intelligent comment.  Euphrasia, however, grasped some of the problems which Austen had had to face.  Moreover, she had learned what she had come for, and the obvious thing to do now was to go home and reflect.  So, without further ceremony, she walked to the door and opened it, and turned again with her hand on the knob.  “Look here, Tom Gaylord,” she said, “if you tell Austen I was here, I’ll never forgive you.  I don’t believe you’ve got any more sense than to do it.”

And with these words she took her departure, ere the amazed Mr. Gaylord had time to show her out.  Half an hour elapsed before he opened his letters.