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.