"I shan't need as long as that," Martin replied, looking before him with set face. "I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do." "There's no such hurry as all that." "I shall know by to-morrow," repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. "All the time in the universe won't change things after that." Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. But comedy had suddenly become tragedy--a tragedy very real and grim--and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away. As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows. If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr. Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought. Silently the hours passed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled. Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry: "I cannot! My God! I cannot!" The words brought Jane to the door. "Martin!" she called. There was no answer and, turning the knob timidly, she came in. "Oh!" she ejaculated. "How you frightened me! I didn't know there was anybody here. Don't you want a light?" "No." "Has--has Mr. Benton gone?" "Yes." "That's good. Supper's ready." "I don't want anything." "Mercy, Martin! You ain't sick?" "No." "But you must be hungry." "No. I'm not." Still the woman lingered; then making a heroic plunge, she faltered: "There--there ain't nothin' the matter, is there?" So genuine was the sympathy beneath the quavering inquiry that it brought to Martin's troubled heart a gratifying sense of warmth and fellowship. "No," he said, his impatience melting to gentleness. "Don't worry, Jane. I've just got to do a little thinking by myself, that's all." "It ain't money you're fussin' over then," said his sister, with a sigh of relief. "No--no, indeed. It's nothin' to do with money." "I'm thankful for that." Nevertheless as he mounted to his room, Martin reflected that after all it was money which was at the storm center of his difficulties. He had not thought at all of the matter from its financial aspect. Yet even if he had done so in the first place, it would have had no influence upon his decision. He didn't care a curse for the money. To carry his point, he would have tossed aside a fortune twice as large. The issue he confronted, stripped of all its distractions, was simply whether his love were potent enough to overmaster his pride and bring it to its knees.