arelessness, the telegram would not have drowned
you, but your carelessness in going too close to the well."

"Suppose," said Phyl, "instead of that, Mr. Silas Grangerson had shot me
by accident with a gun--the telegram would have brought me to that without
any carelessness of mine."

"No, it couldn't," said Pinckney lightly, "it would still have been your
own fault for going near such a hare-brained scamp. Oh, I'm only joking,
what I really mean is that nine times out of ten the thing people call
Fate is nothing more than want of foresight."

"And the tenth time it is Fate," said Phyl rising.

CHAPTER V

Next morning brought Phyl a letter. It came by the early post, so that she
got it in her bedroom before coming down.

Phyl had few correspondents and she looked at the envelope curiously
before opening it.

"Miss Berknowles,
at Vernons. Charleston."

ran the address written in a large, boyish, yet individual hand. She knew
at once and by instinct whom it was from.

"I'm coming to Charleston in a day or two, and I want to see you," ran the
letter which had neither address nor date, "but I'm not coming to
Pinckneys. I'll be about town and sure to find you somewhere. I can't get
you out of my mind since last night. Tried to, but can't."

That was all. Phyl put the letter back in its envelope. She was not angry,
she was disturbed. There was an assurance about Silas Grangerson daunting
in its simplicity and directness. Something that raised opposition to him
in her heart, yet paralysed it. Instinct told her to avoid him, to drive
him from her mind, ay and something more than instinct. The spirit of
Vernons, the calm sweet soul of the place, that seemed to hold the past
and the present, Juliet and herself, peace and happiness with the promise
of all good things in the future, this spirit rose up against Silas
Grangerson as though he were the antagonist to happiness and peace, Juliet
and herself, the present and the past.

Rose up, without prevailing entirely.

Silas had impressed himself upon her mind in such a manner that she could
not free herself from the impression. Young as she was, with the terribly
clear perception of the male character which all women possess in
different degrees, she recognised that Silas was dangerous to that logical
and equitable state of existence we call happiness, not on account of his
wildness or his eccentricities, but beca