“It isn't as simple as that,” he answered. Euphrasia gave him a startled glance. “She ain't married?” she exclaimed. “No,” he said, and laughed in spite of himself. Euphrasia breathed again. For Sarah Austen had had a morality of her own, and on occasions had given expression to extreme views. “She's not playin' with you?” was Euphrasia's next question, and her tone boded ill to any young person who would indulge in these tactics with Austen. He shook his head again, and smiled at her vehemence. “No, she's not playing with me--she isn't that kind. I'd like to tell you, but I can't--I can't. It was only because you guessed that I said anything about it.” He disengaged his hand, and rose, and patted her on the cheek. “I suppose I had to tell somebody,” he said, “and you seemed, somehow, to be the right person, Phrasie.” Euphrasia rose abruptly and looked up intently into his face. He thought it strange afterwards, as he drove along the dark roads, that she had not answered him. Even though the matter were on the knees of the gods, Euphrasia would have taken it thence, if she could. Nor did Austen know that she shared with him, that night, his waking hours. The next morning Mr. Thomas Gaylord, the younger, was making his way towards the office of the Gaylord Lumber Company, conveniently situated on Willow Street, near the railroad. Young Tom was in a particularly jovial frame of mind, despite the fact that he had arrived in Ripton, on the night express, as early as five o'clock in the morning. He had been touring the State ostensibly on lumber business, but young Tom had a large and varied personal as well as commercial acquaintance, and he had the inestimable happiness of being regarded as an honest man, while his rough and genial qualities made him beloved. For these reasons and others of a more material nature, suggestions from Mr. Thomas Gaylord were apt to be well received--and Tom had been making suggestions. Early as he was at his office--the office-boy was sprinkling the floor--young Tom had a visitor who was earlier still. Pausing in the doorway, Mr. Gaylord beheld with astonishment a prim, elderly lady in a stiff, black dress sitting upright on the edge of a capacious oak chair which seemed itself rather discomfited by what it contained,--for its hospitality had hitherto been extended to visitors of a very different sort. “Well, upon my soul,” cried young Tom, “if it isn't Euphrasia!” “Yes, it's me,” said Euphrasia; “I've been to market, and I had a notion to see you before I went home.”