It was not Euphrasia's way to go about with lagging step, and Mrs. Landor noted the change instantly. Then she saw a look in the young face not commonly there, and she put aside the work over which she was busy, motioning Euphrasia to a seat by her side. Euphrasia did not take it. She went to a chair at a little distance, resolutely reticent in air. Mrs. Landor would see, of course, that something was wrong, for Mrs. Landor always saw everything, and Euphrasia knew that she must guard her words carefully. It was so natural to tell Mrs. Landor all that was in her mind, and here she might not do so. She had an odd feeling that distance meant greater safety. But Mrs. Landor quietly moved to the nearest sofa, so she gained nothing. "Mother said I was to come." "Against your will, child?" Mrs. Landor scrutinised the grave face. "It is not a question of 'Little Eyebright' to-day. Those eyes have been awake nearly all night. What have you been doing with yourself?" One glance answered, quickly veiled. "Some little matter that you do not want to tell me? Girls have their troubles, have they not? Don't make too much of it, whatever it may be. Yours is not, I think, a peculiarly anxious temperament, but most of us possess some power of self-worrying." "I don't think—" Euphrasia failed to complete her sentence. "You are pleased, on the whole, to go to your friend." "I didn't want to give it up." "Not even if your mother wanted you at home?" "But my father says I must go. I did offer—last night." "Ah! That alters the question." A pause; and then—"Euphrasia, what is the matter with your father?" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IV FOR ONE'S GOOD THE question came abruptly, though uttered in gentle tones. It took Euphrasia by surprise. A wave of colour crimsoned her face to the hair-roots, and then fled, leaving her white. Mrs. Landor watched with quiet attention. She could do so, since the downcast eyes were not raised. "I see. He has been talking things over with you. No; you need not answer. I am asking no questions. Perhaps, a little mistake on your father's part. The best of men make occasional mistakes. He does not quite realise what a child you are." "I don't feel like a child." "Children seldom do. You will feel younger when you are really older . . . But of course he does not realise—how should he? And he has not been the same man since last winter. A sort of nervous disorganisation about him. He ought to go abroad for a few weeks, and get shaken out of it . . . He has been telling you of some little business worry or other; and in his present state, it has grown to Brobdingnagian proportions. The mole-hill is to your mind a veritable mountain." "I must not repeat—"