at he was to leave for New
York on the morrow, did not return to dinner that night. Phyl went
upstairs early but she did not go to her room, she went to Juliet's.
Sorrow attracts sorrow. Juliet had always seemed more than a friend, more
than a sister, even.

There were times when the ungraspable idea came before her that Juliet was
herself. The vision of the Civil War sometimes came back to her and always
with the hint, like a half veiled threat, that Richard the man she loved
was Rupert the man she had loved, that following the dark law of
duplication that works alike for types and events, forms and ideas, her
history was to repeat the history of Juliet.

She had saved Richard from death at the hands of Silas Grangerson, her
love for him had met Fate face to face and won, but Fate has many reserve
weapons. She is an old warrior, and the conqueror of cities and kings does
not turn from her purpose because of a momentary defeat.

Phyl shut the door of the room, put the lamp she was carrying on a table
and opened the long windows giving upon the piazza. The night was
absolutely still, not a breath of wind stirred the foliage of the garden
and the faint sounds of the city rose through the warm night. The waning
moon would not rise yet for an hour and the stars had the sky to
themselves.

She turned from the window and going to the little bureau by the door
opened the secret drawer and took out the packet of letters. Then drawing
an armchair close to the table and the lamp she sat down, undid the ribbon
and began to read the letters.

She felt just as though Juliet were talking to her, telling her of her
troubles. She read on placing each letter on the table in turn, one upon
the other.

The chimes of St. Michael's came through the open window but they were
unheeded.

When she had read through all the letters she picked out one. The one
containing the passionate declaration of Juliet's love.

She re-read it and then placed it on the table on top of the others.

If she could speak of Richard like that!

But she could do nothing and say nothing. It is one of the curses of
womanhood that a woman may not say to a man "I love you," that the
initiative is taken out of her hands.

Phyl was a creature of impulse and it was now for the first time in her
life that she recognised this fatal barrier on the woman's side. With the
recognition came the impulse to over jump it.

He cared for her, she knew, or had cared for h