STEPHEN had not been able to believe in the reality of his home going until he was settled in the cab that bore him swiftly across the city. He had made so many trips into New York, that his journey of the night before had not been at all convincing; but the squat ferry-house which he now approached from a tangle of crowded streets was new to him, and with the salt breeze blowing full in his face, and the Jersey river-front brilliant in the sunlight beyond, he could feel that he was really going home, that his college days were over, and belonged to a phase of his experience that he had definitely put behind him.

As he hurried aboard the ferry, trim, well built, and more than commonly blessed in the way of good looks, he was jostled by a young fellow carrying a large yellow leather satchel, conspicuously new, who turned with a muttered apology; and Stephen saw a tanned face, the lips partly concealed by a small moustache several shades darker than the shock of bushy red hair inclined to curl, that almost reached the low turned-down linen collar he wore. There was something oddly familiar in the face, which without being in any way handsome, was not unattractive. It might have been merely some trick of expression, but while Stephen was struggling vainly to remember where they could have met before, the crowd separated them. Yet later when he took his place in the line that had formed at the gate, the yellow satchel was just ahead of him.

He followed it down the long platform, and when he went aboard his car, he found it on one of the seats of the section he was to occupy. He settled himself with his newspaper and was absorbed in its perusal, when the owner of the satchel emerged from the smoking compartment at the other end of the car. Stockily built and very muscular, he came swinging down the aisle to drop loosely into the seat opposite him.

Stephen glanced over the top of his paper and caught his eye, shrewd, inquiring, with the least suggestion of a squint, fixed upon him. His first feeling was still so strong, that he was impelled to say, putting aside his paper:

“I beg your pardon, but haven't I met you somewhere before?”

“No, sir, I guess not,” rejoined the stranger, and his clear blue eye narrowed.

“Probably I was mistaken after all,” said Stephen apologetically. He would have stopped with this, but the other now asked abruptly.

“You ever been West, my friend?”

“What do you call the West?”

“Well, not Jersey;” and he grinned, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the flat landscape beyond the car-window. “Say Colorado.”

Stephen shook his head. The other slid deeper into his seat and extended his legs. He was apparently grateful for the opportunity Stephen had given him for speech.

“Give me Denver or Kansas City; those are what I call towns, and Omaha's a right bustling little burg, too; but I'm coming back here when I make a million. It ain't in my class now; it's no place for yearlings.”

Then he became communicative. Colorado was his State; he was in cattle; he had been in mines, but cattle suited him better, and he had been lucky. This luck of his was evidently such a recent matter that it was plain to Stephen he had not yet fully accustomed himself to it.

“You fooled me, too, for a fact. I had the same notion you had,” he said, suddenly renewing the conversation which after a little time they had permitted to lapse.

“What notion was that?” asked Stephen pleasantly.

“Why the notion that we'd met somewhere. These resemblances are mighty curious; ain't they? You look like a fellow I've seen, but to save my life I can't say where.”

There was another pause. He stared at Stephen, and Stephen stared back with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Did you say you were going through to Chicago?” the young fellow asked.

“No, no further than Ohio. The central part of the State, to a place—” suddenly it flashed upon Stephen who he was. He leaned forward and smilingly held out his hand. “Why, you're Reddy!” he exclaimed.

The other started. He shot Stephen a quick glance.

“You're dead sure about that, my friend?” he demanded. “You ain't just chancing it on the colour of my hair?”

“Yes, I am dead sure. Don't you remember me? I'm Stephen—. Stephen Landray.”

“Well, of course! I'd been almost willing to bet money I knew you!” cried Reddy. “But I wasn't looking to meet you here. Say, where you going anyhow?” and he wrung the hand Stephen had extended, with visible feeling.

“I am going home—home to Benson. I have not been back in twelve years.”

“What you been doing anyhow, in business somewhere?”

“No, college,” said Stephen.

“Well, you took your time to it,” commented Reddy, in quite evident surprise.

“I am afraid I did,” and Stephen laughed. He was aware that he had not distinguished himself. “But of course you have been back?” he added.

“Oh, yes, once, to see the old lady. I expect I was a good deal of bother before I got sense; but I'm going to make it up to her right here and now.” He kicked the yellow satchel, which he had displaced when he took his seat. “I got it full of truck for her. I tell you, Landray, I've had my eyes opened. There's a girl—” he blushed under his tan—“she made me feel cheap, the way I'd always acted; never thinking much of any one but myself. She's got me committed to a programme that'll astonish the old lady. I'm going to give her the time of her life regardless of expense.” He slapped his knees, and laughed aloud. “She”—Stephen understood that he was speaking of the young lady who had been the instrument of his regeneration—“went for me so my eyes stuck out. I expect you could have snared 'em off with inch rope—but I was a made man, my friend, when she got through with me. I saw a whole heap of things as plain as day, and I'm going to blow myself in making it up to the old lady. I'm going to take her to Colorado with me.”

“When were you at Benson last, Reddy?” asked Stephen.

“Let me see—about three years ago. I did the wild West for 'em. Say, Landray, I was an awful chump; I was the cowboy every minute, and don't you forget it; wore a sombrero and all that sort of rotten nonsense; but this trip—well, that girl said it would have to be a derby, and what she says, goes here. It's got to, my friend, for you see she's been to Vassar, and knows lot a more than I ever expect to.”

Stephen laughed.

“Well, Reddy, her instruction don't seem to have been wasted on you.”

“I hope it ain't, for I want to get next the right thing. I'll take a hunch off most any one, and say thank you for it.”

“What's become of Benjamin Wade, and Spike?” asked Stephen.

“Well, I guess no one knows anything about Spike. You see his folks moved away from Benson years ago; but Wade's there yet, he's a lawyer. You'll like him, Landray, everyone's got a good word for Ben.”

Then Reddy began to question Stephen, and after he had made himself familiar with the salient points in his career, he spoke of himself more freely than he had yet done, and incidentally told many strange tales of the West. But to Stephen the strangest of all was the story of his luck. He had gone to Colorado with a cattle dealer the year after Stephen left Benson; in short, he fulfilled his early promise, and ran away. He had helped the cattle dealer West with a load of registered stock, and had reached Denver with only the few dollars saved from his wages, in his pocket. From there, he had drifted into the Black Hills, where after years of varying fortune he struck it rich in a modest way, and had found himself possessed of the sum of ten thousand dollars. This he had put in cattle, and had prospered exceedingly. But this was not all—there was a girl; the same girl who had pointed out to him his duty in the case of his mother; her name was Margaret Rogers, and to her, Reddy had given his soul.

“I wish you could know her, Landray,” he said. “Maybe you think it's against her that it's settled between us; that's about how I'd look at it, for I can't see what she finds in a proposition like me to tie up to. It ain't that I've made my little pile, for Colonel Rogers is worth a cool million.”

It was plain to Stephen that Reddy had drunk deep of the spirit of the West. That night they sat in the smoker, under the dim lamps, and talked until it was almost day, and through the next day; and as nightfall came again, they rolled into Benson, with Reddy “dry tongued and plumb talked out.”

Here they separated. Reddy was keen, as he expressed it, to hit the trial for the old lady's shack, and Stephen watched him disappear, tugging at the yellow satchel, heavy with his peace offering, the truck he was taking to her; then as the crowd thinned out from about him, he glanced around. He had more than half-expected that Benson would be there to welcome him.

As he stared about him for a sight of the familiar figure, some one touched him on the arm. He turned, and saw a shabby old gentleman, with a red puffy face and a fringe of white hair showing beneath the rim of his dingy silk hat.

“Steve”—the old man spoke in a husky tremor, as if his emotions were about to master him—“Steve, my dear boy, how are you?”

Landray owned to a feeling of mystification, but since the stranger appeared on terms of such intimacy with him, he gave him his hand.

“'You don't know me; well, it was hardly to be expected you would.”

“Oh, yes, I do!” cried Stephen quickly, a light breaking in on him. “You are General Gibbs.” But he had pictured the general as erect, grizzled, of military aspect; hale and vigorous, with the righteous years he had lived. This grossly fat old man, was a distinct shock; the touch of his clammy hands, the pressure of his tremulous fingers, for Gibbs now held the hand he had given him in both his own, was almost repulsive.

“Surely, it ain't possible that you remember me, Steve?” cried Gibbs. “I reckon you knew Jake wouldn't send any one but me to meet you. Here, let me carry your satchel—no? Well, come this way then to the carriage. Your Uncle Jake wasn't feeling just himself to-night. Oh, nothing serious. Odd, though, ain't it—I'm a good ten years his senior, and I say it without pride, Steve, I've lived a faster life than he has, and I don't know what sickness is. My dear boy, I'm glad to see you, I've been the friend, the intimate associate, of two generations of Landrays, and you're to make the third; for we'll keep up the ancient custom, trust me for that. Are you quite comfortable?”

They were seated in the carriage now.

“Oh, quite,” said Stephen. His first impression of the general was distinctly and unqualifiedly unfavourable. Gibbs was speaking again.

“It's quite a coincidence that I should meet you, Steve; of course you don't remember it, but I brought you here after your poor father's death. He was my very dear friend, we were like brothers. We had been comrades-in-arms, and we were in business together almost up to the time of his death.” Gibbs was industriously swabbing his face with his handkerchief as he spoke. Stephen was silent. He did not know just how to take this old friend of his father's, the wealth of whose emotions embarrassed him, and he was greatly relieved when the carriage turned from the paved street into a gravelled drive, and he knew his journey's end was reached.

The house door opened, and Benson appeared on the threshold. Stephen sprang from the carriage and ran quickly up the steps. Gibbs followed more slowly, with the coachman and the luggage.

“Right up to his room, Andrew—the front room over the library,” Gibbs ordered. He turned to Benson. “I suppose Steve will want to go up-stairs too, Jake. Hadn't I better show him the way?”

Benson gave Stephen a quiet smile.

“I am quite in Gibbs's hands,” he said. “He has been in consultation with the cook for over a week, preparing the dinner we shall sit down to presently.”

“Good Heavens, Jake, I didn't want the lad to starve,” said the general, as, bustling and eager, he led the way up-stairs. While Stephen was busy removing the signs of travel from his face and hands, he established himself in an easy-chair from which he beamed affectionately upon the young fellow.

“Jake's in the hands of his servants. They never do anything for him if it puts them to the least trouble, but they stand about for me! Damn 'em, I give 'em a taste of army discipline now and then, and a good rousing cussing when I think they need it. I don't know what he'd do if it wasn't for me, since Mrs. Pope went away. I reckon you remember her, Steve?”

“Oh, yes.”

In the fuller light, Gibbs seemed more unprepossessing than ever, and there was that about him which explained as fully as spoken words could have done, the cause and nature of his dependence on Benson. Stephen saw in their relation, as he now understood it, only a manifestation of the lawyer's charity and goodness.

It was Gibbs who kept the conversation alive during dinner. He called upon Stephen to admire each course as it was served, it was all his idea, he had battered sense into their heads in the kitchen. They slouched for Jake, but they knew a whole lot better than to try that on him; he made 'em stand around. But presently this topic was exhausted. Stephen turned to Benson.

“Do you remember a boy called Reddy, Uncle Jake, a little fellow I used to play with before I went away to school?” he asked.

“Riley Crittendon, you mean, he was back here some years ago. He is doing very well in the West,” said the lawyer.

“I made the trip from New York with him. Yes, he says he is very successful.”

“His mother rents one of Jake's houses—nice little old lady—not so very old either,” said Gibbs.

“He told me about another of my friends, Benjamin Wade,” said Stephen. “Reddy says he's a lawyer.”

“A very clever one, too, which I suppose he didn't tell you,” said Benson.

“And a young fellow who is going to travel far and fast, if some one don't stop him,” said Gibbs grumpily.

“Gibbs don't like him any too well,” said Benson.

“Humph! He never courted my approval; I reckon he'll flourish like a green bay tree without it. I saw Mrs. Landray to-day, Steve—your Aunt Virginia.” added Gibbs abruptly. “I told her you were expected home. I reckon she'll look to see you to-morrow.”

Benson frowned slightly at this.

“I have a vivid recollection of Aunt Virginia,” said Stephen.

“You ought to,” said Gibbs, turning a sudden purple. “I fetched you here to her, and you lived with her for a while; but you were only a little fellow then, Steve. It ain't to be wondered that your memory don't travel back into the past as freely as mine does. She was a second mother to your father.”

Stephen was less and less disposed to like this shabby disreputable old man. He wondered why it was that Benson tolerated him at his dinner-table, and his wonder grew as the dinner progressed; for Gibbs taking advantage of the occasion applied himself diligently to the wine, and with disastrous results. As he relapsed from sobriety, his conversation became questionable; he was profane, and he was vulgar; or in recalling the past, to which he constantly reverted, he went swiftly from drunken sentiment to drunken tears. At last Benson stretched out a hand and took the bottle from before him.

“You've had enough, Gibbs. We'll go into the library,” he said coldly.

“Oh, come now, Jake—don't we make a night of it?” expostulated Gibbs. But Benson merely pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Stephen followed his example, and the general scrambled uncertainly to his feet. He took Stephen by the arm in an access of affection.

“He screws me down most damnably, Steve—cross him, and you'll find him a tyrant; he knows I wanted to celebrate your return—the return of the native—it's an event! Jake and I here are selfmade men, but you belong to the old aristocracy. You may not think it, but the West's had its first families.”

“I always supposed the Bensons were of their number,” said Stephen.

“The Bensons! Shop-keepers, Steve—mere money getters; isn't that so, Jake?”

“I fear it is, Gibbs,” said Benson laughing, as he led the way from the room.

In the library the general promptly fell asleep in his chair. The lawyer nodded toward him.

“You'll find him better than he looks,” he said.

“He seems devoted to you,” said Stephen, at a loss for anything else to say in his favour.

“Yes, so he is.” Benson was thoughtful for a moment. “I shouldn't have permitted him to get in this condition,” he said with real concern. “It won't please my cousin, and I owed it to him to see that he did not. You must be tired. I'll call Andrew and have him take Gibbs home.”

The next morning Stephen was roused by hearing some one knock at his door. Thinking that it was Andrew, who in his person seemed to combine the functions of coachman and butler, he called to him to enter; but in place of Andrew, Gibbs opened the door. Gibbs, sober, and with a flower in his buttonhole, a sprig of scarlet geranium, and his tall hat held gracefully and jauntily over his forearm.

“Good-morning, Steve!” he cried. “How did you rest, you weren't expecting me, eh?” he chuckled. “I want to see your Uncle Jake. Think he's aged any?”

“No, I can't say that I do, but you know I saw him quite recently.”

“So you did, when he was East during the winter. You are going to see your Aunt Virginia the first thing; ain't you, Steve?”

Stephen looked at him sharply. He could not understand just why Gibbs should be interested in what he did.

“I suppose I'll go there some time to-day,” he said.

“Go there the first thing,” urged Gibbs. “He'll expect you to. If you don't, he'll score it up against you.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper.

“He—who?” asked Stephen.

“Your Uncle Jake.”

“He never mentions her.”

“And never will,” said Gibbs. “But that don't mean he don't think about her. You take my advice and go there the first thing. I know Jake Benson better than you do. He's an amiable mass of contradictions, I reckon it's the Yankee in him.”

“I thought; I don't know why, but I thought always that they were not even friendly.”

“She ain't,” said Gibbs significantly, and chuckled again. “I expect if she ever eases her mind about him, you'll hear things; but just let me tell you this, he ain't going to like it if you are anyways remiss in your duty to her. Humph! there's the bell, I'll leave you to dress.”

When Stephen went down-stairs he found Gibbs and Benson at breakfast.

“I thought I'd come round and see if you had any orders, Jake,” Gibbs was saying briskly. “I didn't know that you'd want to go to the office to-day, there's no need of it.”

“I'll go down as usual, unless Stephen—”

“I think I shall go to my aunt's immediately after breakfast,” said Stephen. He had decided to profit by Gibbs's advice and see what came of it, but apparently nothing came of it, the lawyer's face was quite expressionless, he showed neither satisfaction nor displeasure, but it was Gibbs who offered to accompany Stephen to his aunt's.

“No, sir,” said Gibbs, taking the young man's arm as they gained the street. “I never been able to understand Jake's relation to your aunt;” then with an impressive show of confidence, “I rather think, though, that he's been in love with her. That's the only explanation that offers itself to my mind. Years and years ago I thought this, at the time he went West to find your grandfather—no, you never heard about that, I'll tell you when we have more leisure. Little things your father told me confirmed me in that opinion; but bless you, there was a time when the Bensons were not counted much, and the Landrays were everything. Time's rather upset these conditions, but your Aunt Virginia has not forgotten and never will. I reckon Jake Benson's money never impressed her; but whatever his personal feelings for her have been or are, he has the greatest respect for her. He wouldn't think well of you if you failed there either, though I don't know that he'd be above feeling a certain satisfaction that he'd gotten the best of her where you're concerned. You understand, that's merely one of the contradictions of his nature, for at heart Jake's as sound as a dollar, one of the best and truest hearted of men. He's been like an elder brother to me, and I love and revere him; but damn him, I'm not blind to his little faults. It would be no compliment to him if I were; no, nor no kindness either.”

Arriving at the cottage, Gibbs parted from Stephen at the gate.

“You'll be making her very happy, Steve,” he said, as he left the young man.

A maid answered Stephen's ring, and he was shown into Virginia's small parlour. He had scarcely time to glance about him when Virginia came swiftly into the room.

“Dear Stephen, it was so good of you to come at once,” she said, as she advanced with outstretched hands, and he realized that for some reason which he did not understand, he was much to her, and that he had made her very happy, as Gibbs had said he would. He kissed her and led her to a chair.

“It wasn't good of me, for I wanted to see you.”

“You hadn't forgotten your old aunt? I was almost afraid.”

“Old!” he scoffed. “Have you no one to pay you compliments, Aunt Virginia?”

He had been genuinely surprised. In her way Virginia was as far removed from the commonplace as was Benson himself; only, he could not have analysed it, her distinction was the finer, rarer thing. She was younger, too, than he had expected to find her; for while Benson's appearance added years to his actual age, she still retained her youth in an unusual degree.

She searched Stephen's face with tender concern.

“Am I at all satisfactory?” he laughed.

“Yes, you are wholly a Landray, Stephen,” she said. “You look, dear, as your father did at your age. You are older than he was when he went to the war; yes, you look as he did. All the Landray men have the same look, and you could never be mistaken for any one but a Landray.”

“Some day you must tell me about my father,” he said gently, entering into her mood.

“I shall, for you must be interested in your family, it's a duty, you're the last Landray. I shall have a great deal to tell you. You are through college?”

“Yes, I am home for good.”

“What are your plans, Stephen?” said Virginia a little anxiously. She wished he might understand how uncertain a prop Benson could be; she did not want him to rely on the lawyer, but she forebore to tell him this. There might come a time when she could, but clearly now was not that time.

“I haven't any,” and Stephen laughed easily.

“But you have selected a profession.”

Stephen looked at her with dark puzzled eyes.

“No, my one idea has been to get through with what I had in hand and come home.”

“Then you do regard this as home, Stephen?”

“Most certainly. Uncle Jake has kept that idea before me—I am to make my start here.”

“He is quite right in that; you belong in Benson, it is the home of your family.”

“I am trying to cultivate an intense local pride,” he assured her smiling, but he was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. His future was not causing him any special anxiety, and he was not grateful for being reminded of it, it seemed unnecessary..

He was relieved when the conversation was interrupted as it now was by the entrance of Mrs. Walsh's small sombre figure, for she had never laid aside the mourning she had put on when Benson brought them the news of her husband's death. She was not alone, there followed her into the room a tall girl with rich masses of dark brown hair and dark hazel eyes, which Stephen was aware lighted up charmingly with shy recognition the moment they rested on him; they were instantly veiled by long dark lashes. Instinct told him that this was Harriett's pink-faced baby.

“I fear you will have to put me right, or I shall blunder terribly. It's Aunt Jane, of course;” but he looked beyond Mrs. Walsh to the slight graceful figure of the girl.

“This is my Harriett's Elinor,” said Mrs. Walsh.

“We may be a little confusing at first, but there is only papa and mama, and my sister Clara,” said Elinor as they shook hands.

“You were the baby when I was here before,” Stephen said. “And where is Clara?”

“My sister is away from home, but there is some one here you will want to see, we were just speaking of you—Ben!” she called.

“Yes, Elinor,” said a masculine voice from the hall, and a tall young fellow, rather shabbily dressed, but carrying himself with smiling self-confidence, entered the room. He was clean-shaven, and the outline of his shapely head was accented by his closely cropped black hair; his nose was long and prominent, his eyes black like his hair, when he smiled, and he was smiling now, he disclosed two rows of white even teeth. His attitude toward Stephen from the first moment of their meeting was that of an old friend.

“It's awfully good to see you, Landray,” he said.

“And it's good to see you, Benjamin Wade,” said Stephen laughing. There was something about the young fellow which made his surname oddly unsuited to him.

“I haven't been called that in years, not since I outgrew corporal punishment, how many years ago it seems! I've seen Reddy, he hunted me up first thing this morning, and he told me you were home. I suppose you are going to stay with us?”

“Oh, yes. They tell me you are a lawyer, Ben.”

Wade waved a hand deprecatingly at this.

“A weak limb of the law, Landray, and only just beginning to make trouble for my neighbours. Your aunt here was one of my first clients; and for a longer time than I care to tell, she enjoyed the proud distinction of being my only client.”

“When you're famous, Ben, just think—that will be something for Aunt Virginia to boast of,” said Elinor.

Ben turned toward her, and Stephen thought he detected a careworn look in his eyes. He smiled, but only with his lips, as he answered:

“Pray heaven, it won't be too long a time in coming, my dear girl!”

Somehow Stephen instantly resented their intimacy.