THE weeks that followed Stephen's departure held for Virginia Landray the misery of a first separation. It was the uprooting of all she had counted on as most secure and abiding. That thousands of other men had left their homes on the same errand meant nothing to her, for it was not in her nature to generalize.

Her one comfort was his letters, which reached her at short and reasonably regular intervals. He was all buoyancy and hope; he seemed to think only of the success in store for them; and he so dwelt upon this need of money, a need he magnified to himself and to her, that it was not strange she ended by having a wholly wrong and exaggerated idea of the condition of the family fortunes.

“He is doing it all for me,” she told herself with quivering lips, “and that only makes it the more wicked and monstrous! He has left his home for my sake, becauses he wishes to give me every comfort and luxury; as if I cared for anything—but him!”

Inspired by this thought, she regulated her personal expenditures with an eye to the most rigid economy. These economies of hers threatened to become a scandal and a reproach to Anna, Bushrod's wife, who, however much she regretted her husband's absence, refused to believe that any sacrifice could be made even tributary to her comfort, or could in any way lighten the sorrow and apprehension, she declared she was knowing for the first time in her married life.

But Virginia, whose faith was rather less than her affection for this cheerful sufferer, determined to propose to her that they live together at the farm, and thus save the expense of one household. She planned it all in detail. Anna could have the big front room over the parlour with the smaller one adjoining that looked out upon the west meadow. It would do admirably as a nursery for little Stephen. She grew quite excited over this project, and was on the point of driving into town to see Anna, when Anna herself in all the ingenious gaiety of new spring finery, drove into the yard.

She swept up the steps to Virginia, who had hurried to the door to receive her, adjusting her bonnet with one neatly gloved hand, and gathering up her skirts out of the way with the other; her small person radiant with grace and charm.

She seemed to be thrilling with some pleasurable excitement; and Virginia immediately thought it must be a letter from Bushrod.

“Have you heard about Mr. Tucker?” she asked quite breathlessly.

“What about Mr. Tucker?” said Virginia disappointed.

“He's dead—drowned—my dear! I hurried out to tell you, for I knew you would be interested. One always is, in these dreadful shocking tragedies.”

“Dead! Drowned!” cried Virginia in horror.

“Yes, my dear, drowned!” said Anna, with a small air of triumph.

“Oh!” cried Virginia; and added, “Poor, poor old man!”

“He was following his wife and that dreadful Captain Gibbs—it's quite settled now that she ran off with him; he tracked them half across the state, it seems.”

“But how did he lose his life?” asked Virginia.

“It seems he attempted to ford a dangerously swollen stream and was swept away; no one has the full particulars yet, but I saw Mr. Benson, and he says there is no doubt but that Mr. Tucker is dead.”

“Poor old man!” repeated Virginia pityingly.

“Well!” said Anna, “Captain Gibbs will never dare to show his face here again. They say they will tar and feather him if he does; and I think myself that would be none too good for him.”

Virginia looked inquiringly at her. She wondered if she had come merely to tell her this.

“Did Stephen ever say anything to you about his and Bush's business with Mr. Tucker—the distillery, I mean?” asked Anna.

Virginia shook her head.

“I really think it shocking the ignorance in which those men have kept us about their affairs! Just suppose anything should happen to them!”

“But nothing will,” said Virginia quickly.

“How does one know that, my dear? The papers say the cholera is at Independence.”

“Oh! Don't, Anna! How can you?” and Virginia put up her hands appealingly.

“Well, dear, one mustn't always look on the bright side: It's just as well to be serious sometimes. Goodness knows! You are always saying that I am not half serious enough, and now when I am willing to be—”

“But I never meant in this way!” cried Virginia.

“I know, dear, but there is absolutely nothing else to be serious about!”

“What do they say about Mrs. Tucker and Captain Gibbs?” asked Virginia, wishing to bring Anna back to her original theme.

“They kept on of course; isn't it scandalous! I knew that woman was no better than she should be, but Bush always wanted me to be civil on account of poor Mr. Tucker. Imagine, my dear, she was his third wife! You must admit there is a sort of levity about such marriages that prevents one being altogether serious in thinking of them; but did Stephen ever tell you anything about the distillery? Every one seems to think that all of Mr. Tucker's property will go to his wife; and I always understood that he had never finished paying for the distillery; but Mr. Benson seems to think there was a settlement just before Stephen and Bushrod started West. Did Stephen ever say anything to you about it?”

“No,” said Virginia, “or if he did, I have forgotten it. But what were those papers they had us sign just before they left, don't you remember, Anna?”

“Why, yes—I am sure that Bush told me that it had something to do with Mr. Tucker. Well, I hope they won't lose the distillery,” said Anna.

“Mr. Tucker's death will make no difference,” said Virginia. And then she outlined her plan, which Anna received coldly and with every outward evidence of disfavour.

“What, me bury myself in the country?” she cried. “And to save a few dollars? No, indeed; and I am sure Bush would not be pleased if I did. He begged me not to mope—he was always such a dear; you may feel quite sure that they are perfectly happy; men always get along very well when they are by themselves like that. I sometimes think we are of no special use to them except to keep their homes and to mother their children.”

“How is little Stephen, Anna?” Virginia asked, and a shade of constraint crept into her manner. This was one of her hidden griefs.

Her little nephew had been named in honour of his grandfather, and there could never be a son of hers who might bear that name. She never thought of this without a secret jealous pang.

“I had intended to bring him with me, but I came off in such haste—”

“If you were at the farm”—began Virginia.

“Now don't, dear,” and Anna put up her hands in pretty appeal. “I know all the many advantages of this dreadful lonely place; I spent the first year of my married life here, and I'm not likely to forget it, for I never gave Bush a moment's peace until he had bought the place in town and we had moved into it. That nearly broke up the family! General Landray—a terribly determined old man—never forgave me for that up to the very day of his death; he wanted us to stay on here. I know just what you would say, Virginia; I know all you would do for Stephen. It's such a pity you haven't children of your own.”

Virginia said nothing, but the colour came and went on her cheeks. There was a pause during which Anna moved restlessly in her chair; when Virginia was serious she was very depressing.

Anna was small and dark and pretty, and under the cloak of yielding pliant femininity hid a stout heart and certain strenuous characteristics, conspicuous among which was a really notable determination to have her own way in all small matters affecting her comfort and pleasure. Any large purpose was quite beyond her mental scope, but in the trivial doings of life, its little intrigues and sly manouvres, she was an industrious schemer for petty victories and petty spoils. These were her failings; but on the other hand her good nature rarely forsook her, and she was prolific with those kindnesses that involved no special self-denial.

When Virginia spoke again, it was still to urge the merits of the change. Anna listened patiently and when the other had finished, said, tempering her refusal with a compliment.

“I declare, I never knew you were such a manager, Virginia. You are positively clever. Candidly, dear, I couldn't think of it. It's quite awful; and it's coming summer, too, with all those frightful noisy bugs and frogs to keep one awake nights—I should positively die!”

“That's absurd, Anna,” retorted Virginia sharply. “I do wish you would be sensible, Think of the economy of the arrangement.”

“That's the very thing I refuse to think of. Do be reasonable, Virginia; what will our petty scrimpings amount to in the course of a year? And Stephen—he must be kept at school, he is awfully backward for a child of his years,” and her face assumed a pretty look of maternal anxiety. “This fall I want to enter him at Doctor Long's Academy, and if he were at the farm that would be impossible.”

“It's easy enough to find objections,” said Virginia resentfully.

“No, dear, the whole difficulty is to overcome them,” answered Anna sweetly. “If I really thought it was for the best, I would gladly sacrifice my personal preference; but I don't think it is for the best. Besides, I have asked Mr. Benson to see Doctor Long, and arrange for Stephen's admission to the Academy in the fall.”

“I should have thought you would have preferred to attend to that yourself,” said Virginia, who cherished no little resentment where the lawyer was concerned, because of the innocent part he had been forced to play in the organization of the hated company.

“He is always very kind and considerate,” murmured Anna, who by nature was a lukewarm champion.

“Is he?” said Virginia, but the look on her face was cold and repellent.

“You don't like him!”

“There is no reason why I should either like or dislike him. He is merely my husband's lawyer. So you feel, Anna, that you cannot give up the house in town?”

“Impossible, dear,” briskly. Her conviction as to what was needed for her happiness was always perfectly clear; she seldom had cause to reconsider.

Anna was now ready to return to town; Virginia urged her to stay to dinner, but she had many reasons why her presence was needed at her own home, and Virginia saw that it was useless to insist. At parting she reached up to kiss Virginia, she had to stand on tiptoe to do this, but the latter with the stateliest of inclinations presented her cheek for the caress.

“Why, I believe you are angry with me, Virginia,” she cried. “Let me look at you; yes, you are. Oh! How unfair of you, Virginia—and it is all on account of Stephen, I am sure you wouldn't have him grow up an ignoramus when he has his uncle's name, now would you?”

From her seat on the porch Virginia watched Anna drive away. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed out across the fields. She wondered if it were true, as Anna had suggested; if Stephen had wearied of the life that to her had seemed perfect in its peace and happiness.

“He didn't leave me because he would be happier away from me! he has gone to earn money for me—as if I cared for money! I hate it!”