ON his return to Salt Lake, Benson wrote to Virginia. This letter he intended to carry to St. Louis to post, where he expected to wait for a few days; but his pen faltered, and more than once he left his chair to pace his dimly-lighted room. He wished to spare her, but he wished her to know that Stephen Landray was dead. Yet, when he had finished his letter he felt the result to be pitiful enough, with its poor attempt at consolation; and his face showed pale and haggard in the faint light of the sputtering candle on the table before him. At last, impressed by the utter inadequacy of his commonplaces, he abandoned the idea of writing Virginia then, and wrote Judge Bradly instead.

From St. Louis Benson went to Portsmouth by boat; at Portsmouth he stowed himself away inside the coach in which he was to complete his journey. He found himself seated opposite a tall, dark man of unmistakably clerical aspect who was swathed in shawls and travelling blankets beyond any need that the weather occasioned. The other occupant of the coach, there were but the two beside himself, was a little brown man, with shrewd, squinting eyes, a grizzled beard, and closely-cropped bullet-head. He wore wide, bell-mouthed trousers, and a short jacket with large bone buttons; at his neck was carelessly knotted a flaming kerchief; while perched upon his head was a small canvas cap of strange pattern.

Benson regarded this person with frank wonder; a wonder the man himself seemed both to understand and enjoy, for his shrewd eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Hullo, young fellow!” he said chuckling. “I bet you never seen anything like me before; now did you? It worries you some, don't it?” Benson drew back with a muttered apology.

“No offence!” cried the man good-naturedly. “You're welcome to guess my breed, but you'll never hit it. I'm a sailor.”

“So I imagined,” said Benson.

“Hold on, not so fast!” interposed the man quickly. “That's only part of it; I'm an uncommon kind of sailor; I reckon the only sailor Styles Cross Roads way up beyond Marietta ever turned out, or ever will. None of your lake or river lunk-heads, but a true sea-faring man, Ohio born and Ohio bred, and from Styles Cross Roads, which it's a combination that's hard to beat.”

“It must be,” and Benson smiled indulgently.

“The other gentleman knowed me the minute he clapped eyes on me. He flirted me a look that told me that plain as words.”

But the third occupant of the coach was not to be drawn into the conversation. He neither smiled nor spoke, nor showed that he heard what was said.

“Kick him in the shins,” advised the sea-faring man from Styles Cross Roads in a hoarse whisper. “Maybe he's hard of hearing.”

Benson shook his head in dissuasion of such a course; however, the sailor appeared to abandon the idea with so much reluctance, that the lawyer said pleasantly, wishing to change the current of his thought:

“So you're from Styles Cross Roads?”

“Have you ever heard of the place before?” demanded the sailor.

“I think I have,” said Benson, not quite truthfully.

“Well, I guess it ain't much of a place, it warn't when I left it. This is how it happened,” he continued, squinting hard at Benson. “A good while back, I guess long enough before you was born, young man, old Captain Whipple built a schooner at Marietta, and took her down the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans. I shipped with him as cook's boy. At New Orleans he picked up a cargo of cotton for England, all but me of the crew going home by up river flat boats. In England we got a cargo for St. Petersburg, Russia; but when we reached there, the port officers seized the schooner; they said the papers were forged, that there warn't no such port as Marietta. The captain swore his papers were legal, and that Marietta was a port of clearance. 'You're a most awful liar,' said the Russian officer, with his tongue in his cheek. 'You're a benighted foreigner,' said the captain, 'or else you'd have heard of Marietta, which it's in the State of Ohio.' 'Where's that?' said the Russian. 'Well, I'm damned,' said the captain, 'never heard of Ohio? Never heard of Marietta, Ohio?' 'Never,' said the Russian. 'Extraordinary!' says the captain. 'And I pity you, for that's where I come from. Fetch me a map of the United States of America, and you can tell your grandchildren when you get to having them, that you've looked on the finest country God Almighty ever dared leave out of doors over night!' So they fetched him a map of America, and he found the mouth of the Mississippi, and Coursed up it with his thumb to the mouth of the Ohio, and up that to the mouth of the Muskingum. 'And there you have it!' said the captain. 'That's Marietta—Marietta, Ohio, and my Port of clearance.'.rdquo; The seafaring man from Styles Cross Roads chuckled softly. “That was my first voyage; and there's thirty years between my leaving and my going back; but when I came ashore at New Orleans off my last voyage, I made up my mind I'd make a clean run home.”

Thus happily launched on what might be termed a flood of narrative, he imparted to Benson a variety of information touching the countries and places he had visited. From time to time he even attempted conversation with the dark man opposite; but the latter's manner rebuked such advances, and he ended by confining his remarks to the lawyer, whose courtesy was unfailing.

The miles grew up behind them, the stage stopping now and again to change horses. There was dinner and supper; and they came to a stand at last in front of the tavern where they were to pass the night.

Drawn up in the dusty road before it, were a score or more of great freight wagons. From strange pens came the lowing of cattle; the bleat of sheep. Indoors the bar was thronged with teamsters and drovers, Some of these men Benson knew, and they had known Stephen and Bushrod Landray, and he stopped to shake hands with them, and to answer their eager questions.

He was up betimes the next day, and was soon swinging forward again on the last stage of his journey. His two companions of the day before still kept him company; the sea-faring man from Styles Cross Roads, as communicative as ever, the other reserved and silent. But about midmorning the latter turned abruptly to Benson to say:

“I observe, sir,” and his manner was precise and formal, “I observe, sir, that you appear to have come some distance. If I mistake not I saw you on the boat up from Cincinnati? May I be so bold as to ask if you are going much further?”

“No, fortunately; I am almost at my journey's end. Benson is my destination,” answered the lawyer.

“Oh, indeed? That is my destination, also.”

Benson inclined his head. There was a long silence. The coach stopped at a wayside tavern; and the sailor, after shaking Benson warmly by the hand, left it, to finish his journey across the State by other means.

The dark man watched the rolling figure of the sea-faring man, as he disappeared through the tavern door, then he cleared his throat.

“I understood you to say you were going on to Benson?” said he, resuming the conversation where he had previously abandoned it.

“Yes, it is my home.”

“Perhaps you are acquainted with my brother, Mr. Stillman, the Baptist clergyman?”

“Oh, very well, and you are Dr. Stillman?”

As he spoke, the lawyer glanced curiously at his companion, for Dr. Stillman was famous.

“May I ask your name?” said the doctor.

“Benson; you probably knew my father.”

The doctor gave him a wintry smile. He felt that his purposes separated him from the busy bustling world; its trafficking laity he had found, rarely paused that it might understand his motives, and he had long since ceased to look for sympathy from men occupied with their own concerns. It was the emotional sex which seemed to understand him best.

“You have been engaged in missionary work in India?” said Benson.

“In Burmah, yes; I have only recently returned to America, and have spent the summer lecturing. Now I am going to my brother's for a short stay.”

Benson was aware that the man had a certain curious distinction. His eyes, dark and deep set under narrow brows, were piercing and compelling; they could burn, too, with a wonderful light, just as his reserve could drop before the wealth of his own emotions, emotions that he could make others feel poignantly, while they yet seemed oddly foreign to the man himself.

“Do you expect to return to Burmah?” asked Benson.

“My absence is only temporary. My labours are not finished there yet; indeed they are only just begun.” With an absorbed air, he continued. “Events made it seem advisable for me to temporarily abandon my work, for only recently I suffered a most serious bereavement in the death of my wife.”

“I regret exceedingly to hear it,” said Benson civilly.

“From the first, when she joined me in the East, where I had preceded her, I doubted if she could endure the climate.”

Benson ventured the opinion that such being the case, he would have abandoned so unpromising a field; but Dr. Stillman merely smiled in a superior way which the lawyer found singularly exasperating.

“Personal considerations should never be allowed to clash with one's manifest duty,” he said.

In truth, he had never spared himself; and he exacted of others quite as much as he gave himself.

“Not if one can always be sure of the manifest duty,” said Benson.

“I was sure.”

“You were fortunate,” said the lawyer drily.

There succeeded a long pause which continued for many a mile. Dr. Stillman gave himself up to his own thoughts; and Benson fixed his glance on scenes beyond the coach window; as the day waned, these became more and more familiar, and just at nightfall they began the descent of Landray Hill.

Benson's heart was beating fast. There, off to the right, he saw through the branches of the bare maples and chestnuts, and the dead, dry foliage of the oaks and beeches, the light he was looking for; while out of the shadow back of it grew the huge bulk of the old stone mill.

They clattered noisily through the covered bridge and up Main Street, to come to a stop before the tavern. Dr. Stillman folded his blankets in a compact bundle; and drawing the folds of the vast dolman-like garment which he wore, closer about him, stepped from the stage. Benson quickly followed him.

The doctor was welcomed by his brother; an amiable little man who all but wept over him as he embraced him with fervid enthusiasm in the region of the thighs.

“My dear John! My dear, dear John!” the little man kept repeating. “You're home again! There have been many changes, but it's still home.” Then he espied Benson. “Why, God bless me, Jacob, and so you are back, too! Shocking news you bring, my dear boy. My heart bleeds for those poor ladies! But we are all in His hands, it's His Providence, the mystery of His Ways;” and he wrung the lawyer's hand feelingly. “This is my brother; you have heard of him!”

“We have met,” said Benson.

“Oh, yes, to be sure, to be sure! Well, good-night, Jacob; I'm glad we have you safe back.” And he turned hurriedly away in pursuit of his brother who was striding off across the square, and in the wrong direction from that in which he should have gone.

Benson watched the two out of sight; the tall missionary, and the portly little man, who, holding him fast by the arm, puffed and panted at his side in a vain endeavour to keep pace with his long strides; then he crossed the square in the direction of his own home.

Benson saw Virginia the next day.

There was a touch of weariness in her manner when she greeted him, and the shadow had deepened in her eyes; but aside from this there was no change; her beauty was as rare and wonderful as ever. He drank it in by stealth; and the recollection of those months he had passed without the potent spell of her presence dropped from him in a twinkling; yet because of this, he seemed to have lost ground in his absence. He had lived beyond his unspoken devotion. He had toiled and laboured for her as one only toils and labours for the one they love; and he recognized that he had returned to less than he expected. Would he never get beyond this irksome regard, in which he felt he was held, because of the affection she supposed him to have had for Stephen Landray?

“You received my letter from St. Louis?” he said, scarcely knowing where to begin the conversation.

“Yes, days ago, Mr. Benson.”

“At first I was quite unable to satisfy myself with a letter, I found it was easier to write Judge Bradly; it was less difficult to write you then, knowing you would be in a manner familiar with all that I had learned.”

“I understood perfectly.”

Her composure was beyond what he had anticipated, and he was grateful for the restraint she put upon herself.

“I want you to tell me all!” she went on. “All you did, and all you found. I am trying to understand it. Do you know, that in spite of the conviction I have had since last winter that he was lost to me, I am still unprepared for the positive word you bring. It is all new each time I think of it; and I think of nothing else! You are sure—sure? There is no doubt in your mind?”

Her glance searched his face beseechingly.

“You mustn't ask me to give you any false hope,” he said with grave kindness.

“If I could only go back to the doubt. Even to that; for this is so much worse. This leaves me nothing!”

Very gently Benson began, starting with the recovery of Stephen's knife from Gibbs, and his trip across the plains.

She did not speak until he had quite finished; then she said in the long pause that followed:

“And you think—you think there is no hope?”

“None,” he said gravely.

With a sudden eloquent gesture she pressed her hands to her heart.

“I can't quite realize it yet,” she faltered; for how could he be dead when her love was all alive, when it had undergone no change? She was weighing each point; she would have given much to have believed there was yet hope; but since this could not be, she tried to believe death had been swift and merciful to the man she loved; and the man who loved her was so far forgotten, that afterward she suffered more than one accusing pang when she recalled how inadequate the expressions of her gratitude had been, measured by the weeks and months he had devoted to her service.

Benson seemed to divine that there was a question she wished to ask, but lacked the courage; and he proceeded to answer it in his own direct way.

“When I returned to Salt Lake I made arrangements to have a block of granite cut to mark the spot. I suppose it has been conveyed to the mountains before this. I should have waited to see it in place only I feared the winter might set in and prevent my return to the States until spring; I dared not risk that.”

“You have seen Anna?” she suddenly asked.

He understood; she wished to be alone. He realized this with a quick sense of disappointment. He rose reluctantly from his chair.

“Really I might have gone there first. Where is Mrs. Walsh?” he asked.

“She is with Anna. We fear to leave her alone. It seems she never for one moment lost hope, or had any other belief than that they would come back safe and well.”

“And are you alone here?” he said.

“Yes, for the present.”

“I should think you needed Mrs. Walsh rather more than she does,” he commented with some little brusqueness.

“You must go to her at once when you return to town. I am sure she will feel it if you do not,” urged Virginia.

He drove straight to Anna's. There in the darkened parlour he waited impatiently for a full half hour before she made her appearance. When she at last entered the room, she greeted him with such lack of warmth, that he instantly felt that here he was held in positive disfavour.

“I heard last night that you were home, and I have been expecting you all the morning,” she said resentfully. “Have you seen Virginia?”

“Yes.”

She frowned slightly.

His lips parted in a faintly cynical smile.

“I suppose Virginia told you that I had been utterly prostrated since the cruel news came?”

“Yes,” said Benson. “But I heard last night of your condition; I drove out to the farm first. I knew Mrs. Landray would be able to tell me if it would be advisable for you to see me.”

She looked at him with lurking suspicion; but he met her glance frankly, and she was half convinced of his sincerity.

“I am sorry I kept you waiting,” she said relenting.

“I was so distressed to hear that you were not well,” he murmured. “You must let me come again when you are stronger,” he urged. “I don't think you are in a condition now to hear what I have done; you must be spared that until you are more yourself.”

“But I shall never be that!” cried Anna, with a choking sob. And at this touch of real feeling, he regretted that he had stooped to play a part.

When a little later Benson went back to his office he found Judge Bradly waiting for him.

“You have seen them?” questioned the judge. “My dear Jacob, it must have been a trying experience.”

Benson nodded, and slipped into a chair before his desk. The judge watching him, shook his head with settled melancholy of manner.

“When I made their loss known to them Bushrod's wife fainted, Jake, keeled over at the first word; and when she came to, her grief was most heartrending. Her sister-in-law's composure was remarkable; while Mrs. Walsh showed much emotion—a nice little thing, Jacob; did I understand you to say quite penniless?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad, too bad! wholly incapable, I should say, of meeting the situation by herself. You are convinced in your own mind that Stephen and Bush and the others are dead?”

“Yes,” said Benson shortly.

“Shocking! Shocking!” said the judge, holding up his hands in horror.

“Have you seen either of the ladies since you took the word to them?” asked Benson.

For some reason the judge coloured slightly.

“I think, indeed, I am quite sure, that I have seen Mrs. Bushrod Landray, being close by—you understand,” he paused, and looked hard at Benson.

Benson shot the judge a covert glance.

“A most estimable lady,” continued the latter warmly. “I trust Bush left her well provided for?”

“He did,” said Benson.

“I am relieved to hear it. I had feared that the boys were badly involved. It's a great misfortune for a young and handsome lady to be left as she has been left,” concluded the judge, smiling blandly.

“Yes,” agreed Benson, “it is;” but now he turned on the judge with a quickened interest. The expression on his face was half quizzical, half cynical.

“Do you suppose she will marry again?” asked the judge with studied indifference.

“How should I know?” demanded Benson sharply.

“I did not know but that you might have formed some opinion,” ventured the judge with a slightly embarrassed air.

He became silent. He settled his stock, and took his tall hat from the table at his elbow, and Benson fell to pulling over the papers on his desk.

“When you are ready, Jake, to look into what I have done in your absence—” remarked the judge, about to take his leave.

“In a day or two. I have had a pretty long holiday, you know.”

“Well, whenever you are ready,” said the judge, quitting the room.

Benson turned frowning to the papers on his desk.