IF Virginia had been unable to influence Stephen's life as she wished, this was far from being the case with Jane and Harriett, who had wholly abandoned themselves to her care and control, which had to do, unselfishly enough, with their comfort and convenience. They were also indebted to her for their mental outlook. They echoed her opinions and acquired her convictions, by which they endured with unshaken pertinacity, and she had furnished them with such prejudices as had found a home in their gentle unworldly hearts. In sentiment they were quite as much Landray as she was herself; and their pride in the name was quite equal to her own pride in it; while their affection for her was, aside from their affection for each other, quite the deepest emotion in their simple lives.

Under these conditions Harriett had grown into young womanhood, a shy pretty girl, who looked out upon the world with soft, inexperienced eyes. But her father's death, and Stephen Landray's, and perhaps more than all, Virginia's beauty and silent devotion to her dead husband, had supplied a background of romance and mystery of which she was never wholly unconscious. Of society, as it was understood in Benson, she knew nothing; her mother had never made any friends in the town, and Virginia's own circle had narrowed; she went nowhere.

Some day Harriett knew she would teach; this Virginia and Jane had decided for her. It was their conviction that it was the one thing a young lady could do without compromising her position, it was entirely dignified, a polite and unexceptional occupation where one was so unfortunate as to have her own future to consider; and so to teach, Harriett was fitting herself, when something happened which materially changed all her plans.

Mr. Stark, who for many years had been the pioneer banker in Benson, had long since gone to his reward, and now there were several banks in the town; chief of these was the County Bank where the interest on certain loans which Benson had made for Virginia, with the money he had given her for the land in Belmont County, was regularly paid. Here Harriett often went for Virginia, and it was here she first met Mark Norton, whose uncle, Judge Norton, was interested in the fortunes of the bank; indeed, young Norton was supposed to be mastering the intricacies of the banking business under the judge's eye.

He came of an excellent family in the county, and Harriett had frequently observed the young fellow. She had even noted that after business hours, the easy hours of banks, he indulged himself in the pleasure of driving most excellent horses. His father was a rich farmer, which doubtless had much to do with the soundness of the son's judgment in the matter of horse-flesh; it also explained why it was that he was able to keep fast horses, a luxury not within the reach of the ordinary bank clerk. Harriett had seen all this, as he frequently drove past the cottage presumably on his way into the country beyond. It afterward developed that Norton had observed the slight figure of the girl on the lawn in front of the cottage with the two elder ladies, and he had noted that she was very pretty—singularly pretty, he would have said.

But it was Harriett's privilege not only to see him in his hours of recreation, but also when she went to the bank on some errand for Virginia. He never ventured on anything that could be termed conversation, though he occasionally appeared to be anxious to discover Miss Walsh's opinion on such impersonal subjects as the weather; or if it was a warm day he obligingly called her attention to that fact. He always addressed her as Miss Walsh. He had been almost the first person who found such formality necessary, and that he did, had provoked her to a new and gratifying emotion.

But on one occasion when she stopped at the bank, he was rather more disposed to talk than was usual with him, but Miss Walsh was in some haste to go, once the business that had brough her there was transacted; indeed, so great was her haste that she did not observe that she had left her check-book.

Later in the afternoon, as she sat on the lawn with Virginia and her mother, Norton appeared, striding briskly up the street. He opened the gate, and crossed the lawn to them, smiling and at ease.

“I didn't give Miss Walsh her check-book,” he said. He addressed himself to Virginia. “I thought she would find it out and come back—but you didn't”—he turned to Harriett as he spoke—“and so I've brought it.”

They were all very grateful to him; that is, Virginia and Jane expressed their gratitude. They thought he had been most kind and had put himself to a great deal of trouble in a really unimportant matter. Harriett said nothing, but she suffered an accusing pang when she recalled that she had shown no interest in the weather.

Virginia asked him to be seated, for though he had given the book into her keeping, he still stood before them hat in hand.

Norton sat down with alacrity.

He was not under ordinary circumstances a garrulous young fellow, but on the present occasion he talked hard and fast, as one will who is trying to gain time; but the burden of what he had to say was directed to Virginia. Instinct warned him that it would be her opinion that would have weight with the others, that if he was ever to return there, as he hoped he might be permitted to do, it would be because she was willing he should come; and though Virginia regarded him a little critically at first perhaps, there was nothing of unkindness in her glance.

At last he quitted his chair; but he was manifestly most reluctant to go; they rose, too; and the four walked slowly across the lawn. Norton lagged more and more as they neared the gate; it involved a positive effort for him to tear himself away. In this extremity he fell to admiring the flowers; he was particularly fond of flowers, it seemed; no doubt because he had always lived in the country and was accustomed to having growing things about; he even ventured the hope that Mrs. Landray would let him come later when the roses were in bloom.

“I hope you may come again, Mr. Norton,” responded Virginia kindly.

“Thank you—if it won't be an intrusion, I'll be only too glad to come;” and he stole a swift glance at Harriett.

It may have been the merest chance, but after this in one way and another, Harriett saw a good deal of Norton, for his love of the country took him past the cottage very often. Harriett knew this because she read much by the window in the small parlour.

One night as the three sat in the parlour, the girl's quick ear caught the sound of wheels, and a horse at a rapid trot drew up at the curb. She hid her face in the book she was reading, and her heart beat rapidly. There was a brisk step on the path, and a brisk knock at the door, which Mrs. Walsh opened, and there stood Norton. To the girl's eyes he seemed wonderfully confident, wonderfully sure of himself, and later she might have added, wonderfully discreet, for he devoted himself almost exclusively to Virginia.

He had, it developed, a lively interest in local history; his own maternal grandfather having been a contemporary in the county with General Landray; during the last war with England he had served as a captain in the company of riflemen which the former had raised; furthermore his father had known Mrs. Landray's husband, a fact of which Mrs. Landray herself was well aware. These were all points that were calculated to make her feel a certain liking for the young fellow himself, which was only intensified by his quite evident respect for the very name of Landray; nothing could have been more commendable or better calculated to show him a person of proper instincts. Virginia recalled that as a girl she had been a guest at his mother's wedding; and that General Harrison—to whom Mrs. Norton was distantly related—had been present.

But while they talked of these matters, his glance drifted on past Virginia to the pretty silent girl.

When at last Norton took his leave, he was hospitably urged to call again, an invitation he professed himself as fully determined to make the most of.

He was the first young man who had ever called there, though this was not because there was any dearth of young men in the town; but Harriett was aware that Virginia's point of view regarding strangers was conservative to say the least; here, however, was a young man whose grandfather had been a prominent man in the county when a Landray had been the prominent man of all that region.

So Norton was welcomed graciously whenever he chose to call. Yet somehow after that first call they avoided all mention of him; even repeated visits did not provoke them to discussion; and at this, Harriett wondered not a little.

At last Virginia astonished her small household by announcing that she had invited Norton to tea. They dined in the middle of the day, but on this particular evening tea became a very elaborate affair indeed, for it was the first time in twenty years, or since Stephen Landray's death, that Virginia had bidden a guest to her home. Even Harriett, who thought she knew all the resources of the household, was astonished at the old silver and glass and china that was brought out for the occasion; nor had she ever before seen Virginia dressed with such richness; and she did not wonder that Norton whispered to her as Virginia quitted the room on some errand:

“What a beautiful woman Mrs. Landray is, I wonder she never married again.”

“She will never marry, she is devoted to her husband,” said Harriett.

“Odd, isn't it, that one should always be thinking of that?” he said.

“You mean her devotion to his memory?”

“No, not that—I mean that one should always wonder why a pretty woman doesn't marry.”

“But when you have lost some one you love.”

“Of course—I suppose love only seems so important in our own lives because we know what it has meant to some, and so hope it may mean the same to us.”

“Does it seem so important?” she asked, the colour coming into her cheeks.

“Doesn't it?” he asked quietly.

“Really I don't know, I had never thought of it—in that way.”

“It's a part of what we call success in life; it may be the better part—it should be, Harriett.” His voice dwelt lingeringly and caressingly on her name.

She gave him a frightened, embarrassed glance. It was the first time he had ever called her anything else than Miss Walsh. She hoped all at once that her mother or Virginia would come into the room; but she knew they were busy elsewhere and would not appear until tea was served.

“Don't you think that?” he asked.

“I don't know. I have never thought of it,” she said faintly.

“I wish you'd think of it now,” he insisted.

“Why?” she faltered.

“Can't you guess?” he asked. “As something that might affect you, as something that might affect—us.” He leaned forward in his chair until his face was very close to hers. “Don't you understand what I mean, Harriett?” he went on, and his voice had become suddenly tender. “I wonder if you could think it worth while to care for a fellow like me; don't you know why I've been coming here?”

“To see my Aunt Virginia,” she faltered.

“Well, no—hardly, Harriett; but I fear you are not quite honest with me. You know that you have brought me here. I wanted to come long enough before I did; but there seemed no way. What are you going to tell me about caring for a fellow like me; caring in a particular way—I mean?”

The colour came and went in the girl's face.

“Of course I can wait—after all you don't know me so very well yet; but I'd like to think that my case is not entirely hopeless. Won't you tell me what I want to know, Harriett,”—he heard the swish of heavy silks in the hall, it was Virginia returning. “I'm going to come to-morrow for your answer,” he said quickly.

The next day, after the young man had taken his leave of her, Harriett fled up-stairs to her mother's room with a burning face; while Norton drove away from the house apparently in the best of spirits, for he had the unmistakable air of a man who has just heard something that was unqualifiedly pleasant to hear. The girl hesitated nervously.

“Mr. Norton has just left,” she said.

“I thought I heard him, or some one, drive up to the gate.”

“It was he,” said Harriett.

Her mother went placidly on with her sewing.

“He wants me to tell you that he wishes to come and see you very soon, mama,” said Harriett at last, with a little gasp.

“Wants to see me, dear?” in mild surprise.

“Yes.”

“But what about?”

“About—about me—he wants to tell you something.”

“He seems to have told you already,” said Mrs. Walsh.

The girl dropped on her knees before her mother, burying her face in her lap. There was a little silence between them, and then Mrs. Walsh said.

“We must tell Virginia. I hope, dear, that she will approve.”

Harriett glanced up quickly at this. She was very white of face.

“Oh, you don't think she won't—you don't think that?”

“Then you want her to approve?”

And Harriett nodded; a single little emphatic inclination of the head.