y
that struck her into unconsciousness. Yet she knew that what she had seen
was the day of the death of Rupert Pinckney, that one of those figures
carried on the stretchers was his figure, that her grief was for him.

Had she then experienced what Juliet once experienced, seen what she saw,
suffered what she suffered?

Was she Juliet?

The thought had approached her vaguely before this, so vaguely and so
stealthily that she had not really perceived it. It stood before her now
frankly in the full light of her mind.

Was she Juliet, and was Richard Rupert Pinckney? She recalled that evening
in Ireland when she had heard his voice for the first time, and the thrill
of recognition that had passed through her, how, at the Druids' Altar that
night she had heard her name called by his voice, the feeling in Dublin
that something was drawing her towards America. Her feelings when she had
first entered Meeting Street and the garden of Vernons, Miss Pinckney's
surprise at her likeness to Juliet. Prue's recognition of her, the finding
of those letters, the finding of the little arbour--any one of these
things meant little in itself, taken all together they meant a great
deal--and then this last experience.

Her mind like a bird caught in a trap made frantic efforts to escape from
the bars placed around it by conclusion; the idea seemed hateful,
monstrous, viewed as reality. Fateful too, for that feeling of terror in
the vision had all the significance of a warning.

Then as she sat fighting against the unnatural, her imaginative and
superstitious mind trembling at that which seemed beyond imagination, a
miracle happened.

The thought of danger to Richard Pinckney brought it about. All at once
fear vanished, the fantastic clouds surrounding her broke, faded, passing,
showing the blue sky, and Truth stood before her in the form of Love.

It was as though the vision had brought it to her wrapped up in that
terror she had felt for him. In a moment the fantasy of Juliet became as
nothing beside the reality. If it were a thousand times true that she had
once been Juliet what did it matter? She had loved Richard Pinckney
always, so it seemed to her, and nothing at all mattered beside the
recognition of that fact.

Perfect love casteth out fear, even fear of the supernatural, even fear of
Fate.

* * * * *

"Richard," said Miss Pinckney that night, finding herself alone with him,
"tha