“Oh, come now, Jake—don't we make a night of it?” expostulated Gibbs. But Benson merely pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Stephen followed his example, and the general scrambled uncertainly to his feet. He took Stephen by the arm in an access of affection. “He screws me down most damnably, Steve—cross him, and you'll find him a tyrant; he knows I wanted to celebrate your return—the return of the native—it's an event! Jake and I here are selfmade men, but you belong to the old aristocracy. You may not think it, but the West's had its first families.” “I always supposed the Bensons were of their number,” said Stephen. “The Bensons! Shop-keepers, Steve—mere money getters; isn't that so, Jake?” “I fear it is, Gibbs,” said Benson laughing, as he led the way from the room. In the library the general promptly fell asleep in his chair. The lawyer nodded toward him. “You'll find him better than he looks,” he said. “He seems devoted to you,” said Stephen, at a loss for anything else to say in his favour. “Yes, so he is.” Benson was thoughtful for a moment. “I shouldn't have permitted him to get in this condition,” he said with real concern. “It won't please my cousin, and I owed it to him to see that he did not. You must be tired. I'll call Andrew and have him take Gibbs home.” The next morning Stephen was roused by hearing some one knock at his door. Thinking that it was Andrew, who in his person seemed to combine the functions of coachman and butler, he called to him to enter; but in place of Andrew, Gibbs opened the door. Gibbs, sober, and with a flower in his buttonhole, a sprig of scarlet geranium, and his tall hat held gracefully and jauntily over his forearm. “Good-morning, Steve!” he cried. “How did you rest, you weren't expecting me, eh?” he chuckled. “I want to see your Uncle Jake. Think he's aged any?” “No, I can't say that I do, but you know I saw him quite recently.” “So you did, when he was East during the winter. You are going to see your Aunt Virginia the first thing; ain't you, Steve?” Stephen looked at him sharply. He could not understand just why Gibbs should be interested in what he did. “I suppose I'll go there some time to-day,” he said. “Go there the first thing,” urged Gibbs. “He'll expect you to. If you don't, he'll score it up against you.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “He—who?” asked Stephen. “Your Uncle Jake.” “He never mentions her.” “And never will,” said Gibbs. “But that don't mean he don't think about her. You take my advice and go there the first thing. I know Jake Benson better than you do. He's an amiable mass of contradictions, I reckon it's the Yankee in him.” “I thought; I don't know why, but I thought always that they were not even friendly.”