y in that luminous haze,
that warm light filled with the laziness of June; and, for one delightful
moment, it seemed to Phyl that summer days long forgotten, rapturous
mornings half remembered were here again.

The rumble of trestle and boom of bridge filled the train, and now the
masts of ships showed thready against the hazy blue of the sky; frame
houses sprang up by the track and fences with black children roosting on
them; then the mean streets of the coloured quarter and now, as the cars
slackened speed, came the bustle that marks the end of a journey. People
were getting their light luggage together, and as Phyl was strapping the
bundle that held her travelling rug and books, a waft of tepid,
salt-scented air came through the compartment and on it the voice of the
negro attendant rousing some drowsy passenger.

"Charleston, sah."

She got out, dazed and numbed by the journey, and stood with the rug
bundle in her hand looking about her, half undecided what to do, half
absorbed by the bustle and movement of the platform.

Then, pushing towards her through the crowd, she saw Pinckney.

He had come to meet her, and as they shook hands, Phyl laughed.

He seemed so bright and cheerful, and the relief at finding a friend after
that long, friendless journey was so great that she laughed right out with
pleasure, like a little child--laughed right into his eyes.

It seemed to Pinckney that he had never seen the real Phyl before.

He took the bundle from her and gave it to a negro servant, and then,
giving the luggage checks to the servant and leaving him to bring on the
luggage, he led the girl through the crowd.

"We'll walk to the house," said he, "if you are not too tired; it's only a
few steps away--well--how do you like America?"

"America?" she replied. "I don't know--it's different from what I thought
it would be, ever so much different--and this place--why, it is like
summer here."

"It's the South," said Pinckney. "Look, this is Meeting Street."

They had turned from the street leading from the station into a broad,
beautiful highway, placid, sun flooded, and leading away to the Battery,
that chief pride and glory of Charleston.

On either side of the street, half hidden by their garden walls, large
stately houses of the Georgian era showed themselves. Mansions that had
slumbered in the sun for a hundred years, great, solid houses whose
yellow-wash seemed the incrustation left by golden and peaceful