oss her head and reply, disdainfully, that he was as
comfortable as he should be. For Euphrasia had her own strict ideas of
justice, and to her mind Hilary's suffering was deserved. That suffering
was all the more terrible because it was silent, but Euphrasia was a
stern woman. To know that he missed Austen, to feel that Hilary was
being justly punished for his treatment of her idol, for his callous
neglect and lack of realization of the blessings of his life--these were
Euphrasia's grim compensations.

At times, even, she had experienced a strange rejoicing that she had
promised Austen to remain with his father, for thus it had been given
her to be the daily witness of a retribution for which she had longed
during many years. Nor did she strive to hide her feelings. Their
intercourse, never voluminous, had shrunk to the barest necessities
for the use of speech; but Hilary, ever since the night of his son's
departure, had read in the face of his housekeeper a knowledge of his
suffering, an exultation a thousand times more maddening than the little
reproaches of language would have been. He avoided her more than
ever, and must many times have regretted bitterly the fact that he
had betrayed himself to her. As for Euphrasia, she had no notion of
disclosing Hilary's torture to his son. She was determined that the
victory, when it came, should be Austen's, and the surrender Hilary's.

"He manages to eat his meals, and gets along as common," she would
reply. "He only thinks of himself and that railroad."

But Austen read between the lines.

"Poor old Judge," he would answer; "it's because he's made that way,
Phrasie. He can't help it, any more than I can help flinging law-books
on the floor and running off to the country to have a good time. You
know as well as I do that he hasn't had much joy out of life; that he'd
like to be different, only he doesn't know how."

"I can't see that it takes much knowledge to treat a wife and son like
human beings," Euphrasia retorted; "that's only common humanity. For
a man that goes to meetin' twice a week, you'd have thought he'd have
learned something by this time out of the New Testament. He's prayed
enough in his life, goodness knows!"

Now Euphrasia's ordinarily sharp eyes were sharpened an hundred fold
by affection; and of late, at odd moments during his visits, Austen had
surprised them fixed on him with a penetration that troubled him.

"You don't seem to fancy the tarts as