AS Anna turned from the lane into the public road she met a cart which held a man and a woman. They were on the point of entering the lane as she left it. She smiled and nodded gaily to the man; then she stared hard at his companion. She wondered whom it could be that Mr. Benson had with him, and what he was doing there. Then she regretted she had been in such haste to leave Virginia.

“I am always doing the most stupid things,” she said with a sigh. “I've almost a mind to turn back and pretend I've forgotten something. I wonder if I haven't?” but a hasty search revealed that her purse and handkerchief were in her pocket, and so, perforce, she continued on her way into town.

Meanwhile the cart had kept on up the lane toward the house. “That was Mrs. Bushrod Landray,” Benson explained. “I might have taken you to her, but I think you will prefer to meet her sister.”

When they reached the horse-block by the front steps, Benson climbed briskly down from the cart and turned to assist his companion to alight; but he saw that she hesitated. His glance was full of sympathy.

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Walsh,” he said gently, and his whole manner was the extreme of kindness; then his face brightened. “Perhaps you'd rather I saw her first alone; I can just as well as not. It will save you all explanation. If you don't mind sitting here—” Mrs. Walsh hesitated. “I hardly like to ask so much of you, you have been more than kind already.”

“You must regard me merely as your intermediary. We lawyers are accustomed to execute all kinds of commissions.” and he handed her the reins.

“But not always for such an unprofitable client, Mr. Benson,” she answered gravely.

“Sometimes the mere ability to serve carries its own recompense, Mrs. Walsh. The idea of any other would degrade the service,” and he made her a formal little bow. Then he turned away and went slowly up the steps.

He had not seen Virginia since the day he had driven out to the farm to consult Stephen about the renewal of the note. Virginia herself answered his knock, but her beautiful face was impassive and calm, and her glance strayed on beyond him to the woman in the cart. He felt a sudden sense of exultation in her presence, and the blood mounted warmly to his cheek. He half extended his hand, but while he hesitated, Virginia drew back a step, it might have been unconsciously, and his hand fell at his side.

“Will you grant me a moment in private, Mrs. Landray?” he said deferentially, for even when he came to have the feeling for her that was neither hate nor love, but some part of each, he still paid her this tacit homage; his manner never altered.

Virginia looked at him in surprise, but said: “Certainly, will you come into the library, Mr. Benson?” The conscious severity of her manner toward him did not relax.

This call was quite incomprehensible to her. She acknowledged, however, that to gratify a reasonable curiosity on this point she must sacrifice the opportunity to show her just indignation at the part she still believed he had played in sending her husband West. She led the way down the hall and into the library, where she silently motioned him to a chair. He seated himself and carefully placed his hat and gloves on the floor at his feet. While he was thus engaged her calm eyes were fixed upon him, their look grave and inquiring; and he experienced somewhat the same feeling he had known some five years before when he faced his first judge and jury; there were the same dry lips and parched throat, the same wonder in his heart if anything would come of it when he opened his lips to speak. He knew that his task would not be lightened by any word of hers.

“It's rather a difficult matter that brings me here,” he began haltingly. “I should not have ventured on this errand had it not been that the need was very urgent. You will remember that when your husband went West he took with him a young man by the name of Walsh?”

It was an unlucky start, for Virginia's face hardened perceptibly. He was immediately conscious of this, even while he did not divine the reason for it. He bit his lip, angry with himself that he had not first made his appeal to her pity. Then his pride came to the rescue; this was not the first hostile judge he had confronted.

“Walsh was only recently married when he joined the company; he was a stranger here, but, I believe, a man of excellent antecedents; however, the really serious part of it is, that his wife is quite alone and entirely friendless.”

“I have no patience with him for leaving her,” said Virginia.

“It is hard to condone,” admitted the lawyer.

“It seems to me, Mr. Benson, that since he was too careless to think of his wife's happiness himself, some friend should have reminded him of his duty.”

“I am aware his judgment in the matter may readily be called into question, Mrs. Landray, but I suppose he expects to make his fortune.” He was bent on agreeing with her. He felt her anger but was unable to determine a motive for it.

“And so make amends for all his selfishness? As if he ever could,” cried Virginia in a tone of keen exasperation.

Benson picked up his hat and smoothed the crown nervously. Her manner was inexplicable.

“I wonder you did not advise him as to his duty,” added Virginia.

“I, Mrs. Landray? Why, I never spoke ten words to the man in my life until the day before the company left; then he came to my office and placed one or two small matters of business in my hands.”

“Oh,” said Virginia haughtily. “Your advice was reserved for your friends and clients.”

“Really, Mrs. Landray,” answered Benson quietly, “I am very unfortunate in that I seem to have offended you, but I assure you I am quite in the dark as to what my misdeeds are.”

But Virginia was in no mood to explain; indeed, she considered him quite unworthy of any such frankness, which would have argued an intimacy she did not admit.

“Just now you were speaking to me of Mrs. Walsh,” she said, with a swift change of position, and with a polite if passive interest. “What more have you to tell me of her?”

“While I quite agree with you that Walsh was singularly negligent of her happiness in going West, and in leaving her here among strangers, still the fact remains he did go, but that's not the worst of it. It seems—and Mrs. Walsh told me this with the greatest reluctance—it seems that the money he had put aside for her support in his absence has been lost in some speculation of his brother's, in whose hands the money was left. As nearly as I can gather, Mrs. Walsh is absolutely penniless. She has appealed to me for advice, and I am quite at a loss to know what to suggest; I suppose she can secure employment here of some sort.” Benson paused, and rubbed his chin reflectively and a trifle ruefully. “The whole matter is rather out of my line; but she is so manifestly a lady that I should say it narrowed her chances very materially; naturally, too, she is crushed and humiliated by the whole circumstance, and is hardly able to think for herself. I hoped—I thought—you might be willing to see and advise with her. I know I have no right to impose this upon you, still you have nothing to fear from her, in the way of becoming a dependent, I mean; she is in no sense an object of charity; on the contrary she shows a commendable pride and entire independence of spirit; but she is very young and inexperienced, really scarcely more than a child. I thought you might be able to suggest something she could do. I hardly know what, but surely there is some occupation she can take up until such time as her husband can make suitable provision for her,” he concluded hesitatingly. “I didn't know whom to turn to, until I thought of you.”

There was a pause during which Virginia considered the matter in all its lights. At another time her sympathies, which were always generous, would have led her to prompt action, but now, with the idea of the decay of the family fortunes firmly implanted in her mind, she was reluctant to take a step that might involve her in any way.

Benson's face fell. He had expected something different of her. He half rose from his chair.

“I fear I was entirely too hasty.” There was palpable disappointment in his manner which he did not attempt to conceal.

“No, no,” said Virginia quickly. “I was only wondering if I knew of anything.”

“Then you will see her?” he was immensely relieved.

“Oh, yes, I will go out to her,” and she turned swiftly to the door, but he detained her by a gesture.

“If you will permit it I will ask her to come here to you; probably she will prefer to see you alone. I'll just step down to the mill; I wish to see Paxon,” he said.

Virginia signified her assent, and taking up his hat and gloves he hurried from the room and, a moment later, Mrs. Walsh came quickly into the library, though, evidently, with no little trepidation. She was very young, as Benson had said, slight and fair, and exceedingly pretty. She was dressed in black, but her veil was thrown back so that Virginia could see her face.

“I am very glad to meet you,” said Virginia kindly; then she made a forward step, extending her hand. “Won't you sit down? It's quite a drive out from town; do make yourself comfortable.” And she led her to a chair.

Mrs. Walsh was vastly relieved by her cordiality. She mutely looked her gratitude. After a moment's silence she said: “I should hardly have dared to come to you, Mrs. Landray, without Mr. Benson had urged it. I can't tell you what cause I have to be grateful to him, he has been so kind.”

“It was his place to be kind,” said Virginia; and something told her visitor that Mrs. Landray did not like Mr. Benson. This caused her an instant's surprise.

“You know I am an utter stranger here, Mrs. Landray; my husband came West to fill a position as instructor in Doctor Long's Academy.” The connection had evidently seemed a notable one to the young wife, for she referred it it with manifest pride.

“I think,” said Mrs. Landray shortly, “it was very foolish of him to leave you, and sacrifice such a desirable position.”

“I thought so, too,” agreed the young wife, “but he hopes for such great things from this journey to California. His letters are so brave and full of courage. I am trying to share in all he feels. It was not easy for him to go; I am sure this separation is quite as hard for him to bear as it is for me.”

“But what about you, my dear?” said Virginia. “The fortune he is to make is all in the future. What about the present?”

“Ah, that is very serious,” and her face clouded with doubt. “I shall not know where to write him until after he reaches California; and even then I must wait weeks and months for his answer telling me what to do, and all that while I must live—but how?”

“Then you are quite without means?” said Virginia gravely.

“Yes, but when Jasper left, there was a small sum of money which he had placed with his brother in New York when he came to Benson. He had arranged, as he thought, that this money was to be sent to me, and I was to place it in Mr. Benson's hands for safe keeping, who was to let me have it as I needed it; but now Jasper's brother writes that the business in which the money was invested has been a failure, and that it is lost; that there is no hope of recovering any part of it.”

“Has he made no effort to recover it?” asked Virginia frowning. It was a matter of no small regret to her that this brother had been permitted to shirk his responsibilities. She felt that something should be done to him.

“Mr. Benson has written him, and I, of course; but all he will say is that his business is a failure, and that he has been able to save nothing from the wreck. It is useless to look to him for help; I must do for myself.”

“And what can you do?” asked Virginia.

“I might become a seamstress, or a nurse, or a companion.”

Virginia shook her head. “You are not strong enough to be a nurse, and I know of no one who wants a companion; as for sewing, it is illy-paid work at best; you could scarcely make a living at that. Have you no one—in the East, I mean, who might be willing to help you until your husband can provide for you himself?”

“My aunt, with whom I lived as a child, has died since my marriage, and Jasper only has this brother, and he is on the point of leaving for California himself.”

“I should like to see him,” said Virginia. Mrs. Walsh looked at her in some surprise. “I would give him a piece of my mind.” Virginia added, for her fuller enlightenment.

“He is not very reliable, I fear,” admitted Mrs. Walsh.

“So I should suppose,” said Virginia drily

“Dr. Long would have given me a position in his academy to teach the very small children, but his daughter will do that so really he can do nothing for me. I think he was rather put out at my husband's leaving so suddenly. Of course, I went to him first. I have been very wretched and lonely—” and her lips quivered pathetically.

“My dear,” said Virginia with sudden animation, “you shall stay here with me until you hear from your husband!”

“Oh, Mrs. Landray!”

“I am lonely, too. It may be that we can cheer each other up. At any rate you shall remain with me until your husband knows of your need and provides for you. It will not be for long, and I shall be most happy to serve you in this way.”

“But I can't be a dependent—that of all things—”

“But you won't be. No, I won't listen to your objections. I know Stephen would expect me to do this.”

Just then, through the open window, she saw Benson crossing the yard from the mill. She turned toward the door.

“Here comes Mr. Benson. I will see him and tell him it is all arranged.”

She found the lawyer with one foot on the porch steps, hesitating as to whether or not he should enter the house.

“Mr. Benson,” she said in her clear, calm voice, “Mrs. Walsh will stay with me. May I ask you to see that her trunk is sent out from the town in the morning? Though, perhaps, I'd better send Sam in for it, so I need not trouble you.”

“It will be no trouble in the world,” he made haste to assure her. “Mrs. Landray, this is most kind of you, most generous; I am more than grateful,” and his boyish face flushed with real feeling. Virginia's face, however, remained wholly impassive. She did not ask him into the house, but stood above him on the top step, statuesque and beautiful, her tall figure sharply outlined against the dark green of the woodbine and wisteria that rioted over the porch. Benson stole a glance at her. His face was still radiant. This was what he had secretly expected of her, and his own generous enthusiasm leaped up to touch her's; but it met with no response.

“She doesn't want praise,” he thought. “She is satisfied to be kind and generous.” He hesitated irresolutely, but there was no invitation in her manner, and she did not speak. It occurred to him that she might be waiting for him to go, and his face burnt again.

“I will drive out and see Mrs. Walsh in a day or so if I may.”

“Certainly,” said Virginia. “Perhaps you will see her before you go?”

“You will say good-bye to her for me, please. I'll not go in.” He half hoped she would insist; but her attitude was one of waiting. He turned slowly toward his horse.

“If there is anything I can do, Mrs. Landray, I trust you will not hesitate to command me,” and he took his leave in some haste; more haste, it occurred to him afterward, than the occasion warranted. .

As Virginia turned back into the hall, Mrs. Walsh met her. “Oh, has he gone?” she said. “I so wanted to thank him.” and her voice was full of regret. “What will he think of me, after all he has done! Can't I run after him?”

“It is too late now, I fear, but he will be here again and then you will have your opportunity.” Then her glance softened. “You are such a child,” she said, extending her hand with a cordial gesture. “What is your name?”

“Jane,” answered the other, smiling happily and forgetting all about Benson; and then she slipped her arms about Virginia, and there was a moment given up to hushed confidences on the part of the young wife in the darkened hall. At last Virginia cried: “Oh, my dear, how could he leave you when he knew that?” and her great eyes, now all softness and tenderness, swam with pity. “How could he?” she repeated.