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.