“The arrangement I have made with Judge Bradly admits of an indefinite absence on my part. I shall not be hurried; I shall take my time, and leave nothing undone that holds the shadow of a hope. You will need money before I return, and you are to go to the judge for that; your affairs are temporarily in his hands. There is just one thing I beg of you; don't let your sister take advantage of your kindness in money matters. Bush provided for her, and there is absolutely no reason why you should make sacrifices, or continue those you have already made.” “I will remember.” “I am glad to hear you say that. I hate injustice, I hate to see you the victim of it.” “Have I been? It has all seemed so unimportant; but perhaps I have done wrong. I shall remember all you have said to me.” “I wish you would,” he said. “And another matter, you have not told Mrs. Walsh just how matters stand with her, about that brother-in-law of hers?” Virginia shook her head. “I haven't had the courage.” Benson gave a sigh of relief. “I am glad you haven't. Well, let her go to the judge, too, he understands; it will be all right.” “You are very generous,-Mr. Benson.” He reddened at this. “Oh, no, it's not that. What I may do is nothing to what you are doing; and I still reproach myself with that.” “But you needn't. It has given me something to do, something to think of.” They had reached the lane. He vaulted lightly over the low bars, and from the other side held out his hand. “Good-bye, Mrs. Landray; I shall be very busy until I go, and unless you need me, it is doubtful if I find time to come out here again.” “How shall you go?” she asked. “By stage to Portsmouth.” “And when?” “This day week.” There was a pause; then Virginia said slowly. “I shall miss you, Mr. Benson. I begin to understand how dependent your kindness has made me.” “You are to go to the judge for everything, you know?” he said. “Advice, and all that. You'll find him very kind.” “Yes—but I do not think he can take your place.” An unexpected joy shone in Benson's face. Virginia's glance sought the wooded heights of Landray's Hill. There she had seen the last of Stephen Landray. Now a long line of freight wagons was just disappearing about the turn in the road where months before she had caught the flutter of his handkerchief. She pressed her hand to her heart. What had she been thinking of, why had she let him go? Even then she might have stopped him; it was not too late—but she had let him go. She rested her arms on the bars, while uncontrollable sobs shook her. Benson watched her, white-faced and miserable, and with a bitter sense of the futility of words. A puff of wind showered the bowed head with the petals of the apple blossoms, which caught among the masses of her hair. For a moment Benson looked with all the hunger of his love in his eyes; and then he turned away.