“Yes, it is you! It is because you will abide by an ideal!” “It is not an ideal!” she cried passionately. “But a living presence still—always a living presence, as it was when he left me!” “Then why didn't he stay? If he had, we would both have been spared!” She looked at him resentfully. “You have no right to speak of him!” “Yes, I have; for I would have done more—sacrificed more—” “Be silent!” she commanded, and he saw the white anger in her face; he rose and went to her side. “Forgive me, Virginia—God knows how I love you.” “Do you think I shall forgive you because of that!” she asked. “Yes, perhaps because of that! Circumstances have kept us together from the first; they are still keeping us together—it will always be so.” When Benson reached home, he found a stranger seated in his office, who rose as he entered the room. “Is this Mr. Benson?” he asked. “Yes,” said the lawyer. “What can I do for you?” “My name's Southerland,” said the stranger. “Mr. Benson, I want to talk to you about a tract of land in Belmont County, on which you have been paying taxes, though I understand it don't belong to you. The county clerk gave me your name—told me where to find you—I'm from Wheeling, West Virginia, myself.” “The property belongs to a client of mine—a widow. I have it in charge,” said Benson briefly. “Is it on the market?” inquired Southerland. “Yes; my client will sell for a price,” answered Benson. “You have had offers then?” suggested Southerland, with a tinge of disappointment. “None that we care to consider,” replied Benson. “There's two thousand acres more or less?” “About that,” agreed Benson, nodding slightly. “What do you hold it at?” Benson surveyed him critically. He wondered what his business was; he wondered also what was the value of the land and if it had not a special value to Southerland—he rather thought it had. “I'll tell you,” he said at last. “I'd like to look over the property myself before I commit my client in any way.” “You won't see much but scrub-timber and rocks,” said Southerland. “And minerals,” suggested Benson at a hazard. “Coal,” nodded Southerland. Benson was thoughtful. “Go back with me,” advised Southerland. “I'll show you over it. I know every rod of it.” “Do you?” said Benson drily. “Well, I'll go back with you.” “When, Mr. Benson?” “At once—to-morrow if you like,” answered Benson. His first impulse had been to see Virginia; but on thinking it over, he decided not to arouse her hope until he was sure something would come of it.