“She sent that Englishman for the doctor, and waited to take the news to her father, and she came out in this kitchen and talked to me.”
Austen started. Euphrasia was not looking at him now, and suddenly she dropped his arms and went to the window overlooking the garden.
“She wouldn't go in the parlour, but come right out here in her fine clothes. I told her I didn't think she belonged in a kitchen—but I guess I did her an injustice,” said Euphrasia, slowly.
“I think you did,” he said, and wondered.
“She looked at that garden,” Euphrasia went on, “and cried out. I didn't callate she was like that. And the first thing I knew I was talking about your mother, and I'd forgot who I was talking to. She wahn't like a stranger—it was just as if I'd known her always. I haven't understood it yet. And after a while I told her about that verse, and she wanted to see it—the verse about the skylark, you know—”
“Yes,” said Austen.
“Well, the way she read it made me cry, it brought back Sarah Austen so. Somehow, I can't account for it, she puts me in mind of your mother.”
Austen did not speak.
“In more ways than one,” said Euphrasia. “I didn't look to find her so natural—and so gentle. And their she has a way of scolding you, just as Sarah Austen had, that you'd never suspect.”
“Did she scold you—Phrasie?” asked Austen. And the irresistible humour that is so near to sorrow made him smile again.