and the indistinct outline of the trees and fences
betrayed the fact that the clouds were already thinning under the moon.
Austen had lighted the side lamps of the runabout, revealing the shining
pools on the road as they drove along--for the first few minutes in
silence.

"It was very good of you to stay," he said; "you do not know how much
pleasure you have given them."

Her feminine appreciation responded to the tact of this remark: it was so
distinctly what he should have said.

How delicate, she thought, must be his understanding of her, that he
should have spoken so!

"I was glad to stay," she answered, in a low voice. "I--enjoyed it, too."

"They have very little in their lives," he said, and added, with a
characteristic touch, "I do not mean to say that your coming would not be
an event in any household."

She laughed with him, softly, at this sally.

"Not to speak of the visit you are making them," she replied.

"Oh, I'm one of the family," he said; "I come and go. Jabe's is my
country house, when I can't stand the city any longer."

She saw that he did not intend to tell her why he had left Ripton on this
occasion. There fell another silence. They were like prisoners, and each
strove to explore the bounds of their captivity: each sought a lawful
ground of communication. Victoria suddenly remembered--with an access of
indignation--her father's words, "I do not know what sort he is, but he
is not my sort." A while ago, and she had blamed herself vehemently for
coming to Jabe Jenney's, and now the act had suddenly become sanctified
in her sight. She did not analyze her feeling for Austen, but she was
consumed with a fierce desire that justice should be done him. "He was
honourable--honourable!" she found herself repeating under her breath. No
man or woman could look into his face, take his hand, sit by his side,
without feeling that he was as dependable as the stars in their courses.
And her father should know this, must be made to know it. This man was to
be distinguished from opportunists and self-seekers, from fanatics who
strike at random. His chief possession was a priceless one--a conscience.

As for Austen, it sufficed him for the moment that he had been lifted, by
another seeming caprice of fortune, to a seat of torture the agony
whereof was exquisite. An hour, and only the ceaseless pricking memory of
it would abide. The barriers had risen higher since he had seen her last,
but still he might