“It was Stephen's wish that I should assume the care of his son. He probably felt that I could do for him in ways you never can, Virginia. I will take the boy,” he said abruptly. “You will do nothing of the kind,” answered Virginia quietly, but her eyes flashed. He did not seem to hear her, for he continued: “I have at last decided that I can do this. Perhaps it is my duty; after all, he is no more a Landray than he is a Benson.” By a gesture Virginia seemed to put aside this idea. The boy had the Landray look. “He is the image of his father,” she said tenderly. Benson smiled. “It has taken me a good while to decide what I can do, Virginia. I hope you have not given your heart wholly to the child.” Still she did not fully comprehend the drift of what he was saying. “If you will surrender him to me, I will make myself responsible for his future. I shall, of course, be willing that you should see him.” “Willing I should see him!” exclaimed Virginia. “Mr. Benson, have you quite taken leave of your senses?” “I mean that I do not care to share my responsibility with anyone, not even with you, Virginia; for I cannot believe in a divided authority in so serious a matter. The mistakes made in Stephen's case must not be made in his.” “What were the mistakes?” cried Virginia. “Was there ever a better, braver boy—did he ever fail in affection? That he was unfortunate, that he too early in life took to himself burdens he should not have assumed is true enough, but his faults were the faults of a generous youth!” “They were disastrous enough,” retorted Benson coldly. “And I wish to spare his son similar error, similar hardship. I don't expect you to decide to-day—” “I have already decided,” answered Virginia. “I would not trust him to you.” “When have I been unkind, Virginia?” he asked. “I no longer feel that I know you,” she replied. “There is one answer for that, one explanation; you Know what it is, Virginia,” he said still coldly. “You blame me after all these years.” “They have been lonely ones,” he said. “Because I could not give you what was not mine to give.” He ran his fingers through his thin grey hair, and smiled almost whimsically. “I am not grateful for failure; I find that day by day I am taking more account of success, no matter what its kind; and but for you, Virginia, I might have been a happy man just as I have been a successful man; though after all success is easier won than happiness. You will want to know what I will promise on behalf of the boy, and it's quite right you should—” “I have heard enough,” she said, but he went on unheeding her.