d
the gray blur of the pasture she could see, like benighted beacons, the
lights in Amos Burr's windows, and she found herself vaguely wondering
if Nicholas were at his books--those books that never failed him. He had
that consolation at least--his books were more to him than she had been.

She was not conscious of anger; she felt only an indifferent
weariness--a nervous shrinking from the brutality of his rage. His face
as she had seen it rose suddenly before her, and she put her hand to her
eyes as if to shut out the sight. She saw the clear streak of the
highway, the gray pasture, the solitary star overhanging the horizon,
and she felt the dead leaves blown against her cheek from denuded trees
far distant. And lighted by a glare of memory she saw his face--she saw
the convulsed features, the furrow that cleft the forehead like a seam,
the heavy brows bent above the half-closed eyes, the spasmodic working
of the drawn mouth. She saw the man in whom, for its brief instant, evil
was triumphant--in whom that self-poise, which had been to her as the
secret of his strength, was tumultuously overthrown.

A great fatigue weighed upon her, as if she had emerged, defeated, from
a physical contest. Her hands trembled, and something throbbed in her
temple like an imprisoned bird.

As she sat in the silence, the door opened softly and Miss Chris came
in, bearing a lamp in her hand.

"Eugie," she said, peering into the darkness, "are you there?"

Eugenia lowered the window and came over to the hearth rug, where she
stood blinking from the sudden glare of the lamp. There were some
half-extinguished embers amid the ashes in the fireplace, and she threw
on fresh wood, watching while it caught and blazed up lightly over the
old brass andirons.

Miss Chris set the lamp on the table and came over to the fire. She
carried her key basket in her hand, and the keys jingled as she moved.
Her smooth, florid face had a fine moisture over it that showed like dew
on a well-sunned peach.

"You aren't worrying about Nick Burr, Eugie," she said with the amiable
bluntness which belonged to her. "I wouldn't let it worry me if I were
you."

Eugenia turned with a flash of pride.

"No, I am not worrying about him," she answered.

Miss Chris lifted a vase from the mantel-piece, dusted the spot where it
had stood, and replaced it carefully.

"Of course, I know you've seen a good deal of him of late," she went
on; "but, as I told Tom, I knew