“Iknowyouwas，dear。Inevertoldthattoalivingbeingexceptyourmother。He\'sdeadnow——heneverknew。ButItoldher——Icouldn\'thelpit。Shehadawayofdrawingthingsoutofyou，andyoujustcouldn\'tresist。I\'llneverforgetthatdayshecameinhereandlookedatmeandtookmyhand——sameasyouhaveitnow。Shewasn\'tmarriedthen。I\'llneverforgetthesoundofhervoiceasshesaid，\'Euphrasia，tellmeaboutit。\'“HereEuphrasia\'sownvoicetrembled。“Itoldher，justasI\'mtellingyou，——becauseIcouldn\'thelpit。Folks，hadtotellherthings。“
Sheturnedherhandandclaspedhistightlywithherownthinfingers。
“Andoh，Austen，“shecried，“Iwantsothatyoushouldbehappy！Shewassounhappy，itdoesn\'tseemrightthatyoushouldbe，too。“
“Ishallbe，Phrasie，“hesaid；“youmustn\'tworryaboutthat。“
Forawhiletheonlysoundintheroomwasthetickingoftheoldclockwiththequaint，colouredpictureonitspanel。Andthen，withamovementwhich，strangely，wasanacutereminderofawayVictoriahad，Euphrasiaturnedandsearchedhisfaceoncemore。