MCKEEVER'. company left Benson the day the Confederate Cabinet in session at Montgomery, Alabama, greeted with jeers the news that President Lincoln had issued a call for seventy-five thousand men; but neither its mirth nor the scenes attending the departure of McKeever's handful, in any way foreshadowed the struggle to which the nation was committed. McKeever hustled his men into the cars reserved for them, and the crowd, some thousands strong, that had assembled to see them off, slowly dispersed. During the four grim years that followed, the town grew familiar with these departures, just as it did with the return of the remnants of companies that had gone forth, and men came and went in this new profession of theirs, and only those immediately concerned in their fortunes took note of them.

As they left the town behind, Stephen was conscious only of a sense of freedom. He had cast aside the burdens that had oppressed him. He conceived that in the career he had chosen there would be no perplexing problems, no horror of the law. His one fear was that the war would soon end; and each time this possibility was advanced in his hearing, his heart sank within him.

But if Stephen was disturbed by the prospect of the war's abrupt ending, there were those who did not share in this optimistic view that so widely prevailed. Among these was Tom Benson; who as soon as the call for men came, made ready to cast cannon for the government. When Newton Bently heard of this, he hurried down to the shops. He'd tell Tom a thing or two; did the fool think the country'd waste any time on those lunatics down South? The war would be over with by the middle of summer; then who'd want his cannon?

“And you think that the war will end in two or three months?” said Benson, when he had heard what Bently had to say; and he grinned in large pity of the little man. “Well, think it hard—if it's any comfort to you; man; you see no further than the tip of your nose. You'll never earn your salt as a prophet; this is war if there ever was war.”

“All right, Tom Benson!” sputtered Bently. “If I want to see no further than that, it suits me well enough not to. But I'll tell you one thing; you're doing your best to send this concern straight to hell. You're going to make cannon, are you? When do you expect to use 'em, next Fourth of July, maybe. You're wasting good stock, on which you'll never clear a dollar's profit. I'll not stand for the spending of one cent on such damn foolishness.”

“I'll get it somewhere else,” said Benson sourly.

“Not on the firm's name, you won't; mind you that!” shouted Mr. Bently flying into a rage.

“The firm!” sneered Benson, elevating his bushy eyebrows. “Look here, don't you think the firm's lasted quite long enough? It's been my head against your jaw. It's a hell of a pardnership!” he thrust his hands deep in his trousers' pockets. “Come, which shall it be, do I step out, or do you? One of us has got to go!”

“I guess you'll buy, Tom Benson,” said the postmaster, with a shrewd shake of the head. “I'll not have you moving across the street to set up shop under my nose.”

Benson threw back his head and laughed aloud at this.

“You got a heap of confidence in me. That's a pretty way to talk to your son-in-law, ain't it now?” he said.

“You ain't of my choosing, Tom, I never made any bones about that,” retorted Bently.

His candour must have agreed perfectly with the mechanic's rude sense of humour, for his grin widened.

“Nobody'll ever accuse you of saying anything less than you think,” he said. “Well, if I moved across the street, I could show you how shops ought to be run.”

“I ain't so sure there's anything I can learn of you! I was a mechanic when you was a nursing baby.”

“About then, I should say,” answered Benson. “But the world's slipped forward a cog or two since then.”

“Better buy me out, Tom!” urged Bently. “It's your chance to let the world know how smart a fellow you are!”

“You'll sell then? It ain't all talk?” said Benson.

“Make me your offer, you know what the shops are doing; make me a fair offer and I'll leave you alone here, since that is what you want, to play hell with the business!”

“You'll have my offer inside of two hours,” said the Yankee mechanic coolly.

“Make it cash, Tom, I want none of your paper; people will be building fires with it inside of a twelve month,” he jeered.

Benson turned on his heel and went back through the shops to the pattern-room. From his desk there, which he unlocked, he took a device in polished wood and steel and nickle. This he slipped under his coat, for it was too bulky to carry in his pocket; then he went straight to his nephew's office, where he wasted no time in explanation.

“I want to buy Bently out, Jake,” he said briefly. “I've got money enough put by to meet his price. Now'll you go in with me? for I must have a partner with capital. Wait a minute—I want you should see this before you give me your answer;” and he placed the mechanism he had brought from the pattern room in the lawyer's hands.

“Do you know what you got there, Jake?” he asked, after a moment's silence.

“It's the stock and breech of a gun,” said the lawyer, turning it over.

“It's a repeating rifle, Jake—my own invention, and even if I do say it, it's the greatest weapon ever made! Put that in the hands of one Yankee, and he'll be the match for twenty rebels; do you think the government's going to stand off when I get it in shape to offer? I sha'n'. be able to fill the contracts! Look here, it loads with this special cartridge—automatic—do you see? And feeds from the stock where ten rounds will be carried, and them ten rounds will be available in almost as many seconds. Jake, once I begin to manufacture them rifles, secession's got its death blow; nothing will make good the difference between a muzzle loading musket and that weapon! Once that's in the hands of the Yankees, they will be hunting Jeff Davis in his own back-yard—nothing'll stop 'em!”

“But what do you want me to do?” asked Benson.

“Join me in making that arm! I'll ask you for no money now, all I want is that you should stand ready to put in a few thousands—say eight or ten—in case we're slow in realizing on our contracts.”

“How soon will these demands begin?”

“Not under five or six months.”

“Very well,” said the lawyer. “You can close with Mr. Bently while he's in the humour to sell; later we can draw up papers covering the partnership—there's no hurry about that.”

And before the two hours for which he had stipulated had elapsed,

Tom Benson had closed with Mr. Bendy, and rather less than twenty minutes later he was back at the shops and had given orders to have the old sign which read “Bendy's Foundry” painted out, and “The Benson Iron Works,” the new firm name, under which he intended to continue the business, painted in its stead.

Before Stephen left Camp Jackson, near Columbus, where he was mustered in, he was displaying so great an aptitude for his work, that McKeever, now advanced to a colonelcy, urged his claims to such good purpose, that when he was wounded in a skirmish at Romney, Virginia, and was sent home on sick leave, a lieutenant's commission shortly followed him thither.

His first home-coming his Aunt remembered long afterward with entire satisfaction. Their little estrangement was forgotten; he was frank and affectionate as he had always been.

He had developed wonderfully; his shoulders had broadened and he was brown and muscular, the boy had become a man. He had quite lost his air of troubled preoccupation born of his doubt and foreboding of the future, for his future no longer troubled him.

Virginia made much of him, and he accepted her solicitude and Jane's, with infinite good-nature.

“A fellow don't have any chance with you two!” he told them laughingly. “Especially when his arm's tied up as mine is.”

“But, dear, this is all we can do!” said Virginia sighing, and adjusting his bandages with tender caressing fingers. “When we heard that your regiment had been in battle, it was just as if you were the only one—as if there were not thousands of others!”

The one disturbing element in Virginia's happiness was Stephen's devotion to Marian Benson. It was little short of tragic that this sturdy handsome fellow should be determined to throw himself away on Tom Benson's daughter. Her prejudice here she felt was not altogether groundless, for Benson at her request had brought his cousin to the farm to call; the meeting had not been very successful however; Marian had been embarrassed and ill at ease, and Virginia had not been able to see in her at all what Stephen Saw. With this one tentative attempt at an acquaintance her efforts in that direction had ceased.

Stephen had been delighted when he heard that Marian had driven out to see Virginia. He heard this from Marian herself, Virginia had not mentioned it.

“Why you never said Marian had called,” he told Virginia, almost reproachfully.

“Didn't I, dear?” she asked drily.

“No; and Marian only chanced to mention it to-day. Didn't you think her very pretty?” he questioned eagerly.

“Yes, she is certainly pretty,” agreed Virginia, but without enthusiasm.

“The prettiest girl in Benson—and quite as nice as she is pretty! I wonder you didn't tell me that she had been here; I hope you'll see lots of her, Aunt Virginia.”

“You know, dear, I've quite gotten out of the way of meeting people.”

His face clouded at this.

“But I'm sure you'd like her mother; and Mr. Benson's a very superior sort of man. He showed me an invention of his to-day, a rifle, if he can get it accepted by the government he'll make a fortune. It's certainly a wonderful thing.”

Virginia heard him in silence, and then abruptly changed the subject. He was puzzled, but remembered that Marian had been equally reticent. He decided that for some reason they had not gotten on very well together, and that the friendship which he had confidently looked for the moment they met, was even further off than if they had not met at all. But he took comfort in the thought that when he and Marian were married, the relation between her and Virginia would change entirely; she would be of the family then. There was Harriett, a stranger might have found it difficult to say whether she was Jane's daughter or Virginia's. The latter seemed to feel an equal interest in her with her mother. This was all so characteristic of his aunt, that he felt once they were married, her love would go out to Marian in the same way.

It was during the continuance of his furlough that Virginia determined to sell the mill. It had taken Benson six months to find a purchaser for the property, but he was at last successful; and Stephen drove Virginia into town the day the deed was signed.

“You are satisfied to have the sale made, Stephen?” Benson inquired.

“Certainly,” said the young man a little defiantly, “the ready money is better than the property.”

“I dare say.” responded the lawyer.

In the afternoon, Benson drove to the mill with the new owner. Afterward he strolled up to the house to see Virginia.

“I have just been going over the accounts,” she told him, a trifle ruefully, and held up an inky forefinger.

“I was aware that the sale of the mill would not do all you hoped it might; that it would not clear off the debts even. I can't bear to see you continue this useless struggle; it hurts me as nothing else has ever hurt me. I am proposing nothing unusual—men go to the aid of other men—business is not entirely a matter of calculation, sentiment does enter into it; I want to make this situation easy for you; let me clear up those debts, then you can put this money in the bank.”

“No,” she said quietly.

He left his chair and took a turn of the room.

“Have you forgotten what I once told you, Virginia?” he asked, pausing and facing her.

“You were not to mention that to me again.”

“Have I spoken of it only in words, Virginia?” he asked.

“You have been—most considerate always,” she said guardedly.

“You did not think that I had forgotten, Virginia—or that I had ceased to care?” he said.

“I hoped you had.”

“There is not an hour of the day that you are out of my thoughts, you have given me every decent impulse I have known—you have been more to me than I can ever tell you! You must hear me—you must know how I love you—it is no matter of yesterday or the day before—for years now I have thought only of you, Virginia! Show some mercy—let me think that there is some hope.” He looked at her imploringly, but her face had only hardened as he went on, there was no sign of the pity he implored. He did not wait for her to speak. “I have been patient—I have waited—I have hoped, that you might relent; but we seem to be drifting further and further apart. I see you oppressed and burdened; I find you struggling with cares and a situation you are not fitted to meet, and which I can so quickly remedy; but you will accept nothing from me even as a friend—that is the bitterest part of it; I seem powerless to help you! If you would only let me—that would be something! You leave me only the one thing to do—to ask you again to be my wife. I know—I know,” he put out his hand, imposing silence. “Your struggle is as hopeless as it is unnecessary, the condition you are trying to fight off is older than you know—it had its beginning before Stephen and Bush went West; they felt it coming—that is the real reason they went—and what can you do but wear your life out to no purpose! Be reasonable, and escape from a condition you can not meet!”

“I can't escape from it that way.”

“Listen to me, Virginia!” he said, with gentle firmness. “I love you—you must marry me.”

“I shall never marry—such a thing is impossible.”

“No, not impossible,” he replied, doggedly determined to keep it before her as a possibility. “Why should we wear out our lives. I might have struggled against my love instead of living for it; but the result would have been the same. I should have ended here, as now, trying to tell you what you are to me, how empty my life is without you; and to think that I have failed so miserably in the one great purpose I have known!”

She was softened for the moment by the deep sincerity of his tone. “I have valued you as a friend—you have given me every reason to—I still want you for my friend.”

“That is not enough,” he said with a gesture of bitter disdain. “It is all I can give you.”

He heard Stephen come whistling up the path from the lane, and shaken by his emotion threw himself down in his chair.

“I will attend to the notes,” he said, with an attempt at composure as Stephen entered the room.