There was a gentle tap at the door, and Virginia entered the room, carrying a lamp. She bowed slightly to Benson, whom she had not seen before, and who, to her, seemed to be taking much too active a part in her husband's concerns. Her dislike, for it already amounted to that, was scarcely reasonable, but then she was not always reasonable. “I thought you would need a light,” she explained, addressing her husband, “and Martha is busy with the men's supper.” “Thank you for remembering us,” said Stephen. He had risen and now took the lamp from her hand; in doing so his fingers closed about her's with a gentle pressure, while his eyes looked smilingly into her's; but there was no answering smile. She turned abruptly and quitted the room. There was an awkward pause, then Bushrod rose quickly from his chair, with something like a look of dismay on his dark face. “I declare, Stephen, you shouldn't go! What's the use of every one being made miserable?” “Nonsense, man!” said Stephen with a shrug. A little later Bushrod and Benson drove away together, and Stephen, who had followed them to the door, paused on the porch watching them out of sight. A soft step roused him; his wife stood at his side, and placed a hand on his arm. “I am sorry,” she said simply. “You're not to blame,” he said kindly. “I know it's not the sort of thing a woman could have much interest in.” “Oh, don't let us speak of it again! I want you to remember only that you were happy during these, our last days together, and that I loved you, as I have always loved you, Stephen—sometimes I think better than even you comprehend.” “Why, you speak as if it were the end of it all, when it's only the beginning! Bush and I will make our fortunes—” “Oh, why can't we be content to be just poor, Stephen? What does it matter what we lack so long as we have each other? Once, not very long ago, we thought that would be sufficient,” she whispered softly, and to him her every word was a reproach; only his fancied needs, defended by his native stubbornness and his inability to look down any path save that he had chosen, was keeping him true to his purpose. “But we can't be poor,” he said at last doggedly. “I've wished it were possible, but it's not! We can't stand by and see the fortune go to pot!” “But I thought our love was enough—it is for me,” she said sadly. “Why, bless your heart, dear, and so it is!” he cried in a tone of sturdy conviction, slipping an arm about her. “Then why must you go?” But she knew that opposition was useless. “Nothing but our necessity is taking me from you.” “Money!” with brave contempt. “We can live without that!” “I'm afraid not, dear.” “Why do you so dread the loss of fortune? There are other things I dread more to lose.” “I swear I don't know; but there is something shameful in it to me,” he said. “But why?”