“You hadn't forgotten your old aunt? I was almost afraid.” “Old!” he scoffed. “Have you no one to pay you compliments, Aunt Virginia?” He had been genuinely surprised. In her way Virginia was as far removed from the commonplace as was Benson himself; only, he could not have analysed it, her distinction was the finer, rarer thing. She was younger, too, than he had expected to find her; for while Benson's appearance added years to his actual age, she still retained her youth in an unusual degree. She searched Stephen's face with tender concern. “Am I at all satisfactory?” he laughed. “Yes, you are wholly a Landray, Stephen,” she said. “You look, dear, as your father did at your age. You are older than he was when he went to the war; yes, you look as he did. All the Landray men have the same look, and you could never be mistaken for any one but a Landray.” “Some day you must tell me about my father,” he said gently, entering into her mood. “I shall, for you must be interested in your family, it's a duty, you're the last Landray. I shall have a great deal to tell you. You are through college?” “Yes, I am home for good.” “What are your plans, Stephen?” said Virginia a little anxiously. She wished he might understand how uncertain a prop Benson could be; she did not want him to rely on the lawyer, but she forebore to tell him this. There might come a time when she could, but clearly now was not that time. “I haven't any,” and Stephen laughed easily. “But you have selected a profession.” Stephen looked at her with dark puzzled eyes. “No, my one idea has been to get through with what I had in hand and come home.” “Then you do regard this as home, Stephen?” “Most certainly. Uncle Jake has kept that idea before me—I am to make my start here.” “He is quite right in that; you belong in Benson, it is the home of your family.” “I am trying to cultivate an intense local pride,” he assured her smiling, but he was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. His future was not causing him any special anxiety, and he was not grateful for being reminded of it, it seemed unnecessary.. He was relieved when the conversation was interrupted as it now was by the entrance of Mrs. Walsh's small sombre figure, for she had never laid aside the mourning she had put on when Benson brought them the news of her husband's death. She was not alone, there followed her into the room a tall girl with rich masses of dark brown hair and dark hazel eyes, which Stephen was aware lighted up charmingly with shy recognition the moment they rested on him; they were instantly veiled by long dark lashes. Instinct told him that this was Harriett's pink-faced baby. “I fear you will have to put me right, or I shall blunder terribly. It's Aunt Jane, of course;” but he looked beyond Mrs. Walsh to the slight graceful figure of the girl. “This is my Harriett's Elinor,” said Mrs. Walsh.