The word North set his teeth on edge. It did not matter to him that Charleston was picking up some prosperity in the way of phosphates, or that Chattanooga was smelting ore into money, or that industrial prosperity was abroad in the land; he was old enough to have a recollection of old days, and from the North had come the chilly blast that had blown away that age. A servant brought in cake and wine to stay the travellers till dinner time, refreshment that Miss Pinckney positively refused at first. "You will stay the night," said the Colonel, as he helped her, "and Sarah will show you to your rooms when we have had a word together." Miss Pinckney, sipping her wine, made no reply, then placing the scarcely touched glass on the table and with her bonnet strings thrown back, she turned to the Colonel. "Do you see the likeness?" said she. "What likeness?" asked the old gentleman. "Why, God bless my soul, the likeness to Juliet Mascarene. Phyl, turn your face to the light." The Colonel, searching in his waistcoat pocket, found a pair of folding glasses and put them on. "She gets it from her mother's side," said Miss Pinckney, "the Lord knows how it is these things happen, but it's Juliet, isn't it?" The Colonel removed his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief, and returned them to his pocket. "It is," said he. Then in the fine old fashion he turned to the girl, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Phyl," said Miss Pinckney, "would not you like to have a look at the garden whilst we have a chat? Old people's talk isn't of much interest to young people." "Old people," cried the warrior. "There are no old people in this room." He made for the door and opened it for Phyl, then he accompanied her into the hall, where at the still open door he pointed the way to the garden. CHAPTER II Outside Phyl stood for a moment to breathe the warm scented air and look around her. To be treated like a child by any other person than Maria Pinckney would have incensed her, all the same to be told to do a thing because it was good for her, or because it was a pleasant thing to do, in the teller's opinion, was an almost certain way of making her do the exact opposite. The garden did not attract her, the place did. That cypress avenue with the sun upon it, that broad sweep of drive in front of the house, the distant peeps of country between trees and the languorous lazy atmosphere of the perfect day fascinated her mind. She came along the house front to the right, and found herself at the gate of the stable yard. The stable yard of Grangersons was an immense flagged quadrangle bounded on the right, counting from the point of entrance, by the kitchen premises. There was stable room for forty horses, coach-house accommodation for a dozen or more carriages.