manded quickly.

"You see, I'm a woman," said Victoria, "and I'm prejudiced--for Zeb
Meader. Women are always prejudiced,--that's our trouble. It seemed to
me that Zeb was old, and unfortunate, and ought to be compensated, since
he is unable to work. But of course I suppose I can't be expected to
understand."

It was true that she could not be expected to understand. He might not
tell her that his difference with Mr. Flint was not a mere matter of
taking a small damage suit against his railroad, but a fundamental one.
And Austen recognized that the justification of his attitude meant an
arraignment of Victoria's father.

"I wish you might know my father better, Mr. Vane," she went on, "I wish
you might know him as I know him, if it were possible. You see, I have
been his constant companion all my life, and I think very few people
understand him as I do, and realize his fine qualities. He makes no
attempt to show his best side to the world. His life has been spent in
fighting, and I am afraid he is apt to meet the world on that footing.
He is a man of such devotion to his duty that he rarely has a day to
himself, and I have known him to sit up until the small hours of the
morning to settle some little matter of justice. I do not think I am
betraying his confidence when I say that he is impressed with your
ability, and that he liked your manner the only time he ever talked to
you. He believes that you have got, in some way, a wrong idea of what he
is trying to do. Why don't you come up and talk to him again?"

"I am afraid your kindness leads you to overrate my importance," Austen
replied, with mingled feelings. Victoria's confidence in her father made
the situation all the more hopeless.

"I'm sure I don't," she answered quickly; "ever since--ever since I
first laid eyes upon you I have had a kind of belief in you."

"Belief?" he echoed.

"Yes," she said, "belief that--that you had a future. I can't describe
it," she continued, the colour coming into her face again; "one feels
that way about some people without being able to put the feeling into
words. And have a feeling, too, that I should like you to be friends
with my father."

Neither of them, perhaps, realized the rapidity with which "accidental
acquaintance" had melted into intimacy. Austen's blood ran faster, but
it was characteristic of him that he tried to steady himself, for he
was a Vane. He had thought of her many times during the past year, but
gra