heart--I
guess her prayers were like that."

"Do you--remember the verse?" asked Victoria.

Euphrasia went to a little shelf in the corner of the kitchen and
produced a book, which, she opened and handed to Victoria.

"There's the verse!" she said; "read it aloud. I guess you're better at
that than I am."

And Victoria read:--

"Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

Victoria let fall the volume on her lap.

"There's another verse in that book she liked," said Euphrasia, "but it
always was sad to me."

Victoria took the book, and read again:--

"Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?"

Euphrasia laid the volume tenderly on the shelf, and turned and faced
Victoria.

"She was unhappy like that before she died," she exclaimed, and added,
with a fling of her head towards the front of the house, "he killed
her."

"Oh, no!" cried Victoria, involuntarily rising to her feet. "Oh, no! I'm
sure he didn't mean to. He didn't understand her!"

"He killed her," Euphrasia repeated. "Why didn't he understand her? She
was just as simple as a child, and just as trusting, and just as loving.
He made her unhappy, and now he's driven her son out of her house,
and made him unhappy. He's all of her I have left, and I won't see him
unhappy."

Victoria summoned her courage.

"Don't you think," she asked bravely, "that Mr. Austen Vane ought to be
told that his father is--in this condition?"

"No," said Euphrasia, determinedly. "Hilary will have to send for him.
This time it'll be Austen's victory."

"But hasn't he had--a victory?" Victoria persisted earnestly. "Isn't
this--victory enough?"

"What do you mean?" Euphrasia cried sharply.

"I mean," she answered, in a low voice, "I mean that Mr. Vane's son is
responsible for his condition to-day. Oh--not consciously so. But the
cause of this trouble is mental--can't you see it? The cause of this
trouble is remorse. Can't you see that it has eaten into his soul? Do
you wish a greater victory than this, or a sadder one? Hilary Vane will
not ask for his son--because he cannot. He has no more power to send
that message than a man shipwrecked on an island. He can only give
signals of distress--that some may heed. Would She have wai