“Yes,” continued Euphrasia, “the mountain was alive for her.  ’He’s angry to-day, Phrasie.  That’s because, you lost your temper and scolded Hilary.’  It’s a queer thing, but there have been hundreds of times since when he needed scoldin’ bad, and I’ve looked at the mountain and held my tongue.  It was just as if I saw her with that half-whimsical, half-reproachful expression in her eyes, holding up her finger at me.  And there were other mornings when she’d say, ’The mountain’s lonesome today, he wants me.’  And I vow, I’d look at the mountain and it would seem lonesome.  That sounds like nonsense, don’t it?” Euphrasia demanded, with a sudden sharpness.

“No,” said Victoria, “it seems very real to me.”

The simplicity, the very ring of truth, and above all the absolute lack of self-consciousness in the girl’s answer sustained the spell.

“She’d go when the mountain called her, it didn’t make any difference whether it was raining—­rain never appeared to do her any hurt.  Nothin’ natural ever did her any hurt.  When she was a little child flittin’ about like a wild creature, and she’d come in drenched to the skin, it was all I could do to catch her and change her clothes.  She’d laugh at me.  ’We’re meant to be wet once in a while, Phrasie,’ she’d say; ’that’s what the rain’s for, to wet us.  It washes some of the wickedness out of us.’  It was the unnatural things that hurt her—­the unkind words and makin’ her act against her nature.  ‘Phrasie,’ she said once, ’I can’t pray in the meeting-house with my eyes shut—­I can’t, I can’t.  I seem to know what they’re all wishing for when they pray,—­for more riches, and more comfort, and more security, and more importance.  And God is such a long way off.  I can’t feel Him, and the pew hurts my back.’  She used to read me some, out of a book of poetry, and one verse I got by heart—­I guess her prayers were like that.”

“Do you—­remember the verse?” asked Victoria.

Euphrasia went to a little shelf in the corner of the kitchen and produced a book, which, she opened and handed to Victoria.

“There’s the verse!” she said; “read it aloud.  I guess you’re better at that than I am.”

And Victoria read:—­

     “Higher still and higher
      From the earth thou springest
     Like a cloud of fire;
      The blue deep thou wingest,
     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.”

Victoria let fall the volume on her lap.

“There’s another verse in that book she liked,” said Euphrasia, “but it always was sad to me.”

Victoria took the book, and read again:—­

     “Weary wind, who wanderest
      Like the world’s rejected guest,
     Hast thou still some secret nest
      On the tree or billow?”

Euphrasia laid the volume tenderly on the shelf, and turned and faced Victoria.

“She was unhappy like that before she died,” she exclaimed, and added, with a fling of her head towards the front of the house, “he killed her.”