“Men can be hired to go where I can not,” said Virginia reluctantly. Then she drew herself up imperiously, “I have thought of all you say, Mr. Benson, and in spite of obstacles the means of success will not be lacking, I am sure of that.” There was a long silence. Benson rose and paced the floor. Virginia watched him gravely. “It will be possible for you to raise sufficient money?” she asked at last. “I shall need a large sum.” “I beg your pardon—oh, yes,” when she had repeated her question. Benson paused in his rapid walk. “I suppose you know how absolutely helpless you will be,” he said. “How dependent on mere chance kindness, on mercenary interest, Mrs. Landray? I appreciate your heroism—it is beautiful—believe me I am not unmindful of that; but it is altogether impractical. If any one goes, a man must go. A man who will be superior to chance kindness or purchased interest, who can conduct the search himself from beginning to end, and who will not have to trust any one.” “But where could I find such a man?” The lawyer's face flushed. “Would you trust me, Mrs. Landray?” “You—Mr. Benson?” “Yes.” “Oh,” rising and going quickly to his side. “You are not serious, you could not go; so many people need you here!” “They can very well get along without me,” he said shortly. She searched his face eagerly; there was a faint wistful smile on her lips. It was plain she was uncertain as to how she might take his words. “I am quite in earnest, Mrs. Landray,” he said. “You could trust me.” “Oh, yes—implicitly.” A swift sense of joy came to him. He was about to do a very foolish thing; but the fact that it would be for her, dignified the folly; it became desirable, a privilege. “But can you go?” doubtfully. “Why not?” and he laughed boyishly. “What's to keep me if I wish to go? However, you must understand that I am making a promise that future events will probably render void; so you need not thank me, since I can't think I'll have the opportunity to earn your thanks.” “But I do thank you!” “And you agree to my going if it's necessary?” he questioned eagerly. She looked at him doubtingly. “I wonder when you speak so confidently of my hearing from Stephen in the spring, how much is conviction, how much kindness—the wish to put from me till the last moment a terrible, hopeless knowledge?” His glance wavered under the intensity of the look she fixed upon him; he could not meet her eyes. “I know you mean to be very kind, Mr. Benson. Your friendship has been my greatest comfort, and now you will make this sacrifice; I fear I am very selfish in allowing it, but don't you understand? This is the last, the only thing I can do; after this, there is nothing—nothing—everything will have ended for me; and so, in my extremity, I am willing to let you go for me.” “Don't say that, Mrs. Landray!” he cried. “Nothing really ends; in some form or another the thing we cherish lives on.”