"Ought I to go? I wonder if I ought? Is it wrong? 'Must' I give up? I don't see any real reason. It may be all just nothing at all. And Letitia would be so hurt. Perhaps she would never ask me again." That thought won the day. Euphrasia resolved to leave arrangements undisturbed. She did not feel satisfied, but it was something to have come to a decision of any sort; and she went in vigorously for packing. She went in also for anticipations. This coming month promised to be the happiest she had ever known. Letitia and Letitia's parents, Letitia's home, and Letitia's brother—Euphrasia's imagination rang the changes on these thoughts hour after hour. But ever and anon rose once more the question, "Ought I really to go?" "It is settled now. I can't unsettle things. Mother would be worried if I did. My box is packed, and why 'should' I put off? It would be absurd!" So she made answer, yet the little questioning voice would not be entirely put down. Mr. Mackenzie, as an ordinary rule, came home to early dinner, but once in a way, if very busy, he would take lunch at a confectioner's close by. On this day they saw no more of him till the evening, and then his gray shadowed look sent a fresh thrill through the girl. "Ought I to go?" the voice asked again. "Oh, but I can't give it up now," she cried within herself. "Now! How can I? Just when everything is settled! Oh, I can't!" And so the evening passed, till bed-time drew near. "Euphrasia, my dear, I should rather wish—I should like a few words with you." Mr. Mackenzie's voice broke into a half-happy, half-uneasy dream. Mrs. Mackenzie was upstairs, called away by some domestic appeal; and Flo had retired with Ken to the dining-room, where he prepared his lessons. "Not here, I think. Your mother will be back directly." "No. She said she would be more than half-an-hour. Nobody will interrupt us just now." His face worked uneasily, the muscles twitching, the eyes sombre. "I should like to say—something. It would be a—something of a relief to me. For yourself alone, mind—absolutely for yourself alone. Not a word to anyone." "Father, you can trust me. You know I would never repeat a single thing." Euphrasia drew her chair a little nearer, and his hand came on hers. "How hot you are!" she said involuntarily. "No, my dear, you never repeat things. I am quite aware! You are a good child! . . . Perhaps I am not wise to speak, but this burden on me—" "What burden?" "A sense of coming calamity. And if I do not speak now—if I should never have another opportunity—" "Never—'what,' father?" A spasm of terror almost deprived her of utterance. "My dear, nobody ever knows. Nobody can tell. Anything might happen before you come home. A whole month! Nations have changed owners in less than a month!" And he laughed faintly. "But in West Norton—what 'could' happen? I don't understand what you mean!"