Austen smiled.  It was the first sign, since his return the night before, Euphrasia had given that an affection for Hilary Vane lurked beneath the nature.

“She won’t stay long, Phrasie,” he answered, and added mischievously, “for a very good reason.”

“And what’s that?” asked Euphrasia.

“Because you won’t allow her to.  I have a notion that she’ll pack up and leave in about three days, and that all the doctors in Ripton couldn’t keep her here.”

“Get along with you,” said Euphrasia, who could not for the life of her help looking a little pleased.

“I’m going off for a few hours,” he said more seriously.  “Dr. Tredway tells me they do not look for any developments—­for the worse.”

“Where are you going?” asked Euphrasia, sharply.

“To Fairview,” he said.

Euphrasia moved the kettle to another part of the stove.

“You’ll see her?” she said.

“Who?” Austen asked.  But his voice must have betrayed him a little, for Euphrasia turned and seized him by the elbows and looked up into his face.

“Victoria,” she said.

He felt himself tremble at the name,—­at the strangeness of its sound on Euphrasia’s lips.

“I do not expect to see Miss Flint,” he answered, controlling himself as well as he was able.  “I have an errand for the Judge with Mr. Flint himself.”

Euphrasia had guessed his secret!  But how?

“Hadn’t you better see her?” said Euphrasia, in a curious monotone.

“But I have no errand with her,” he objected, mystified yet excited by Euphrasia’s manner.

“She fetched Hilary home,” said Euphrasia.

“Yes.”

She couldn’t have be’n kinder if she was his own daughter.”

“I know—­” he began, but Euphrasia interrupted.

“She sent that Englishman for the doctor, and waited to take the news to her father, and she came out in this kitchen and talked to me.”

Austen started.  Euphrasia was not looking at him now, and suddenly she dropped his arms and went to the window overlooking the garden.

“She wouldn’t go in the parlour, but come right out here in her fine clothes.  I told her I didn’t think she belonged in a kitchen—­but I guess I did her an injustice,” said Euphrasia, slowly.

“I think you did,” he said, and wondered.

“She looked at that garden,” Euphrasia went on, “and cried out.  I didn’t callate she was like that.  And the first thing I knew I was talking about your mother, and I’d forgot who I was talking to.  She wahn’t like a stranger—­it was just as if I’d known her always.  I haven’t understood it yet.  And after a while I told her about that verse, and she wanted to see it—­the verse about the skylark, you know—­”

“Yes,” said Austen.

“Well, the way she read it made me cry, it brought back Sarah Austen so.  Somehow, I can’t account for it, she puts me in mind of your mother.”