pleasant, the tea urn on the table, the garden through the open window--

Then came the thought--what matter.

All that was lost to her anyhow. It did not matter in the least what she
did.

She was running away with Silas Grangerson.

She had a vague sort of idea that they were running away to be married,
that she would have to explain things to Colonel Grangerson when they got
to the house and that things would arrange themselves somehow.

But now, she sat voiceless beside her companion, answering only in
monosyllables when he spoke; a voice began to trouble her, a voice that
repeated the half statement, half question, over and over again.

"You are running away to be married to Silas Grangerson?"

She was running away from her troubles, from the prospect of returning to
Ireland, from the idea of banishment from Vernons. She was running away
out of anger against the woman who had taken Richard. She was running away
because of pique, anger and the reckless craving to smash everything and
dash everything to pieces--but to marry Silas Grangerson!

"Stop!" cried Phyl.

Silas glanced sideways at her.

"What's the matter now?"

"I want to go back."

"Back to Charleston!"

"Yes, stop, stop at once--I must go back, I should never have come."

Silas was on the point of flashing out but he shut his lips tight, then he
reined in.

"Wait a moment," said he with his hand on her arm, "you can't walk back,
we are nearly half way to Grangersons. I can't drive you because I don't
want to return to Charleston. If you have altered your mind you can go
back when we reach Grangersons, you can wire from there. The old man will
make it all right with Maria Pinckney."

Phyl hesitated, then she began to cry.

It was the rarest thing in the world for her to cry like this. Tears with
her meant a storm, but now she was crying quietly, hopelessly, like a lost
child.

"Don't cry," said he, "everything will be all right when we get to
Grangersons--we'll just go on."

The horses started again and Phyl dried her eyes. They covered another
five miles without speaking, and then Silas said:

"You don't mean to stick to me, then?"

"I can't," said Phyl.

"You care for some one else better?"

"Yes."

"Is it Pinckney?"

"Yes."

"God!" said he. He cut the off horse with the whip. The horses nearly
bolted, he reined them in and they settled down again to their pace.

The country was very desolate just here, cotton fields