“You don't think that, Virginia. You know that Stephen wrote me just before his death? I understood Gibbs to say that he had told you of this letter—of its purport.”
“Yes,” but she glanced at him in some alarm.
“Stephen wished me to assume the burden of the boy's education. He knew that I could do more for him in a worldly way than you, Virginia, and he had tasted the bitterness of a struggle to make a place for himself. To write me, to feel that he must turn to me in his extremity, must have been a blow to his pride. In his letter the awkwardness of his constraint shows itself. The feeling he had for me remained with him to the end.”
She knew what he meant, but did not answer him. He went on.
“Years ago, Virginia, when Stark took the Landray farm, I made up my mind that some day you should return there. I have had to wait, but recently the farm was sold to me. It's a whim—a fancy, if you will—but I want you to go there and live.”
Virginia shook her head.
“I shall never go there,” she said.
“Wait!” he interposed quickly. “I want to sell you the place. Remember it was your home all those years; you went there when you first came to Benson.”
“I know—I remember,” said Virginia softly, and the shadow deepened in her eyes.
“You will reconsider? You will take the place off my hands?” he urged impatiently.