"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?" as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up. Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice. After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help. To be sure, her father did sometimes seem to find it a relief to confide in his eldest girl, when afraid to say a word to his wife lest she should magnify his meaning tenfold, and worry herself ill with unreasonable fears. He could be sure that Euphrasia would understand. But he would not expect that she should be invariably at hand for such confiding . . . To be sure, it was a very short time since her return from school, and she had not meant to go away again so soon. But the invitation had come, and was irresistible. Under a momentary impulse she had offered to withdraw from the promised pleasure; and the instant throb of fear lest her offer should be accepted, had shown her what such withdrawal would mean. Each hour since had made the giving up harder to contemplate. She resolved to wait through the night, and to see how her father seemed in the morning. At breakfast, he called himself "better," and looked wretched. His fixed paleness, yet more, his fixed look of trouble, gave her a guilty feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie, rather singularly, while noting and commenting on the former, did not perceive the latter. Euphrasia was haunted through the meal by a sense of threatening trouble. Something surely had happened, or was going to happen. So she told herself, and then she tried to believe the notion a mistake. Anything rather than allow herself to feel that she might not go. He kissed Euphrasia when starting for his day's work. "Pack up your traps, Little Eyebright. You will be off to-morrow. Mid-day train, is it not?" "Father, are you really better?" His smile was not cheerful. "'A man's weel or wae as he thinks himsel' sae.' I'm not going to be fancying myself an invalid, till I grow into one." "If you would like me to put off my visit—" Again the momentary gleam of half-assent, and the quick pulling in of himself. "No, no!—no need—it is best over. Have your pleasure while you can, child." A deep sigh was audible as he turned away. Then it was that Euphrasia found her way into the bay-window, to stand lost in thought.