e old walls and the faint murmur of the living city beyond.

They walked along the paths, looking at the tombstones, and pausing to
read the inscriptions, Phyl gradually entering into that state of mind
wherein reality and material things fall out of perspective. The fragrant
elusive poetry of death, which can speak in the songs of birds and the
scent of flowers in the sunshine and the shade of trees more clearly than
in the voice of man, was speaking to her now.

All these people here lying, all these names here inscribed, all these
were the representatives of days once bright and now forgotten, love once
sweet and now unknown.

Then, as though something had led or betrayed her to the place, she paused
where the graves lay half shadowed by a magnolia, she read the nearest
inscription with a little catch of her breath. Then the further one. They
were the graves of Juliet Mascarene and Rupert Pinckney, the dead lovers
who had passed from the world almost together, whose bodies lay side by
side in the cold bed of earth.

In a moment the spell of the little arbour was around her again, in a
moment the pregnant first impression of Vernons had re-seized her, fresh
as though the commonplace touch of everyday life had never spoiled it.

It was as though the spirit of Juliet and the spirit of the old house were
saying to her "Have you forgotten us?"

Tears welled to her eyes. Silas standing beside her was saying something,
she did not know what. She scarcely heard him.

Misinterpreting her silence, unconscious as an animal of her state of mind
and the direction of her thoughts, the man at her side moved towards her
slightly, seemed to hesitate, and then, suddenly clasping her by the waist
kissed her upon the side of the neck.

Phyl straightened like a bow when the string is released. Then she struck
him, struck him open handed in the face, so that the sound of the blow
might have been heard beyond the wall.

His face blanched so that the mark on it showed up, he took a step back.
For a moment Phyl thought he was going to spring upon her. Then he
mastered himself, but if murder ever showed itself upon the countenance of
man it showed itself in that half second on the countenance of Silas
Grangerson.

"You'll be sorry for that," said he.

"Don't speak to me," said Phyl. "You are horrible--bad--wicked--I will
tell Richard Pinckney."

"Do," said Silas. "Tell him also I'll be even with him yet. You're in love
with him,