“Yes,” agreed Benson. “If I see you in the afternoon, I suppose you will be ready to put your offer in shape for me to submit? I expect to take the night train west. If your offer is accepted, I'll be back by the first of next week to conclude the deal.” Benson took a train west the next evening. He carried with him Southerland's offer, which he had satisfied himself Virginia could do no better than accept. From the first his feeling had been one of generous enthusiasm. He could hardly wait to see Virginia. The speed of the train that was bearing him across the State seemed utterly inadequate to the great occasion. She would be a rich woman again; the smile faded from his lips. The thought smote him like a sudden blow. His one hold upon her had been her dependence; and what comfort he had been able to cheat himself into taking was all based on the idea that as Virginia's fortunes grew desperate, she must inevitably turn to him. Now he would have nothing to offer. She was free to leave Benson if she chose. It was two o'clock in the morning when he descended to the station platform at Benson. He slept late the following morning, and after he had breakfasted went into his office to look over his letters. These were but few. He soon disposed of them, and he was at liberty to go to Virginia. But he had parted with the desire. His first generous enthusiasm had quite left him. He assured himself that he was still unspeakably glad for her sake, it was only that for his own sake he could not be glad. He must surrender all idea of her; but it was folly to imagine he could do this all in a moment, all in a day. In his life, where each sane and modest desire had known its accompaniment of modest achievement, this love of his had been the supreme thing; great, compelling, uplifting, unsatisfied. There was one thing he could do; and suddenly he found himself thinking it out step by step until the smallest detail was clear in his mind. He might buy the land of her, paying her as he now could, some small sum for it that would benefit her, and yet keep her near him, and still dependent. If he did this, of course he could not accept Southerland's offer. He would hold the land just as Virginia had held it, deriving no benefit from it. This would be a disgraceful and a cruel thing to do, but it could be done—that is, it would be simple enough to do. It provoked a dull wonder in him that he could consider so base a betrayal of her trust and confidence, but the details of this miserable scheme kept recurring to his mind. He even assured himself that it was no longer possible to be honest in his dealings with Virginia; for to be so, was to forever banish the slight chance of future happiness to which he clung with a determination and desperation that had become a part of his very love for her.