"Nothing. She had nothing to say. She asked why I wanted to break it off." "And you told her it was because of her conduct, I hope." "No. I told her it was because I had come to care for some one else." Miss Pinckney said nothing for a moment. Then she looked at him. "Richard, do you care for Phyl?" "Yes." "Thank God," said she. The one supreme wish of her life had been granted to her. Her gaze wandered to the glimpse of garden visible through the open window and rested there. She was old, she had seen friend and relative fade and vanish, the Mascarenes, the Pinckneys, children, old people, all had become part of that mystery, the past. Richard alone remained to her, and Phyl. On the morning of Phyl's arrival Miss Pinckney had felt just as though some door had opened to let this visitor in from the world of long ago. It was not only her likeness to Juliet Mascarene, but all the associations that likeness brought with it. Vernons became alive again, as in the good old days. Charleston itself caught some tinge of its youth. And there was more than that. "Richard," said she, coming back from her fit of abstraction, "I will tell you something I'd never have spoken of if you didn't care for her. It may be an old woman's fancy, but Phyl is more to us, seems to me, than we think, she's Juliet come back--Oh, it's more than the likeness. I'm sure I can't explain what I mean, it's just she herself that's the same. There's a lot more to a person than a face and a figure. I know it sounds absurd, so would most things if we had never heard them before. What's more absurd than to be born, and look at that butterfly, what's more absurd than to tell me that yesterday it was a worm? Well, it doesn't much matter whether she was Juliet or not, now she's going to be yours, and to save you from that pasty--no matter she's over and done with, but I reckon she's laughing on the wrong side of her face this morning." Miss Pinckney rose from the table. The absence of Phyl did not disturb her. Phyl sometimes stayed out and forgot meals, though this was the first time she had been late for breakfast. Richard, who had business to transact that morning in the town looked at his watch. "I'm going to Philips', the lawyers," said he, "and then I'll look in at the club. I'll be back to luncheon." An hour later to Miss Pinckney engaged in dusting the drawing-room appeared Rachel the cook. Rachel was the most privileged of the servants, a trustworthy woman with a character and will of her own, and absolutely devoted to the interests of the house. "Mistress Pinckney," said the coloured woman closing the door. "Ole Colonel Grangerson's coachman's in de kitchen, an' he says Miss Phyl's been an' run off with young Silas Grangerson dis very mornin'." Miss Pinckney without dropping the duster stood silent for a moment before Rachel. Then she broke out.