said it would be just as well to keep it secret for a while,
and then if either of us felt disposed we could break it off and no harm
done."

"Meaning that she could break it off if she wanted to but you couldn't."

"Perhaps. When I went back last night and told her I wanted to be free,
she flew out."

"Said you must stick to your word?"

"Nearly that. Then I told her she herself had said that it was open to
either of us to break the business off."

"What did she say to that?"

"Nothing. She had nothing to say. She asked why I wanted to break it
off."

"And you told her it was because of her conduct, I hope."

"No. I told her it was because I had come to care for some one else."

Miss Pinckney said nothing for a moment. Then she looked at him.

"Richard, do you care for Phyl?"

"Yes."

"Thank God," said she.

The one supreme wish of her life had been granted to her. Her gaze
wandered to the glimpse of garden visible through the open window and
rested there. She was old, she had seen friend and relative fade and
vanish, the Mascarenes, the Pinckneys, children, old people, all had
become part of that mystery, the past. Richard alone remained to her, and
Phyl. On the morning of Phyl's arrival Miss Pinckney had felt just as
though some door had opened to let this visitor in from the world of long
ago. It was not only her likeness to Juliet Mascarene, but all the
associations that likeness brought with it. Vernons became alive again, as
in the good old days. Charleston itself caught some tinge of its youth.
And there was more than that.

"Richard," said she, coming back from her fit of abstraction, "I will tell
you something I'd never have spoken of if you didn't care for her. It may
be an old woman's fancy, but Phyl is more to us, seems to me, than we
think, she's Juliet come back--Oh, it's more than the likeness. I'm sure I
can't explain what I mean, it's just she herself that's the same. There's
a lot more to a person than a face and a figure. I know it sounds absurd,
so would most things if we had never heard them before. What's more absurd
than to be born, and look at that butterfly, what's more absurd than to
tell me that yesterday it was a worm? Well, it doesn't much matter whether
she was Juliet or not, now she's going to be yours, and to save you from
that pasty--no matter she's over and done with, but I reckon she's
laughing on the wrong side of her face this morning."

Miss Pinckney rose from th