Richard Pinckney went to his room at eleven that night. He rarely retired before twelve, but to-night he had packing to do as Jabez, his man, was away and he knew better than to trust Seth.

He packed his portmanteau and left it lying open in case he had forgotten anything that could be put in at the last moment. Then he packed a kit-bag and, having smoked a cigarette, went to bed.

But he did not fall asleep. As a rule he slept at once on lying down, but to-night he lay awake.

He was miserable; going away was death to him, but he was going.

First of all, because he had said that he was going. Secondly, because he wanted to hit and hurt Phyl whom he loved, thirdly, because he wanted to torture himself, fourthly, because he loathed and hated Silas Grangerson, fifthly, because in his heart of hearts he knew what he was doing was wrong.

You never know really what is in a man till he is pinched by Love. Love may stun him with a blow or run a dagger into him without bringing his worst qualities to light whilst a sly pinch will raise devils—all the miserable devils that march under the leadership of Pique.

If he had not loved Phyl the fact of her going off with Silas for a drive after what had occurred on the night before would have hurt him. Loving her it had maddened him.

He was not angry with her now, so he told himself—just disgusted.

Meanwhile he could not sleep. The faithful St. Michael’s kept him well aware of this fact. He lit a candle and tried to read, smoked a cigarette and then, blowing the candle out, tried to sleep. But insomnia had him fairly in her grip; to-night there was no escape from her and he lay whilst the moon, creeping through the sky, cast her light on the piazza outside.

St. Michael’s chimed the quarter after two and sleep, long absent, was coming at last when, suddenly, the sound of a light footstep on the piazza drove her leagues away.

Then outside in the full moonlight he saw a figure. It was Phyl, fully dressed, standing with outstretched hands. Her eyes wide open, fixed, and sightless, told their tale. She was asleep.

She moved the curtains aside and entered the room, darkening the window space, passed across the room without the least sound, reached the bed, and knelt down beside it. Her hand was feeling for him, it touched his neck, he raised his head slightly from the pillow and her arm, gliding like a snake round his neck drew his head towards her; then her lips, blindly seeking, found his and clung to them for a moment.

Nothing could be more ghostly, more terrible, and yet more lovely than that kiss, the kiss of a spirit, the embrace of a soul rising from the profound abysm of sleep to find its mate.

Then her lips withdrew and he lay praying to God, as few men have ever prayed, that she might not wake.

He felt the arm withdrawing from around his neck, she rose, wavered for a moment, and then passed away towards the window. The lace curtains parted as though drawn aside, closed again, and she was gone.

He left his bed and came out on the piazza. Craning over he caught a glimpse of her returning along the lower piazza and vanishing.

Coming back to his room he saw something lying on the floor by his bed; it was a letter; he struck a match, lit the candle and picked the letter up. It was just a folded piece of paper, it had been sealed, but the seal was broken, and sitting down on the side of the bed he spread it open, but his hands were shaking so that he had to rest it on his knee.

It was not from Phyl. That letter had been written many, many years ago, the ink was faded and the handwriting of another day.

He read it.

“Not to-night. I have to go to the Calhouns. It is just as well for I have a dread of people suspecting if we meet too often....

“Sometimes I feel as if I were deceiving him and everybody. I am, and I don’t care. Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! If the whole world were against you I would love you all the more. I will love you all my life, and I will love you when I am dead.”

It was the letter of Juliet to her lover.

He turned it over and looked at the seal with the little dove upon it. He knew of Juliet’s letters, and he knew at once that this was one of them, and he guessed vaguely that she had been reading it when sleep overtook her and that it had formed part of the inspiration that led her to him. But the whole truth he would never know.

A blazing red Cardinal was singing in the magnolia tree by the gate, butterflies were chasing one another above the flowers; it was seven o’clock and the blue, lazy, lovely morning was unfolding like a flower to the sea wind.

Richard Pinckney was standing in the piazza before his bedroom window looking down into the garden.

To him suddenly appeared Seth.

“If you please, sah,” said Seth, “Rachel tole me tell yo’ de train for N’York—”

“Damn New York,” said Pinckney. “Get out.”

Seth vanished, grinning, and he returned to his contemplation of the garden.

She must never know.—In the years to come, perhaps, he might tell her— In the years to come—

He was turning away when a step on the piazza below made him come to the rail again and lean over. It was Phyl. She vanished and then reappeared again, leaving the lower piazza and coming right out into the garden. He waited till the sun had caught her in both hands, holding her against the background of the cherokee roses, then he called to her:

“Phyl!”

She started, turned, and looked up.