mans." He took a cigarette case from his pocket and a cigarette
from the case.

"You don't mind smoking, do you?"

"Not a bit."

"Have one?"

"I daren't."

"Maria Pinckney won't know."

"It's not her--I smoked one once and it made me sick."

"Well, try another--I won't look if you are."

"They'll--she'll smell it."

"Not she, you can eat some parsley, that takes the smell away."

"Oh, I don't mind telling her--it's only--well, there."

She took a cigarette and he lit it for her.

"Blow it through your nose," he commanded, "that's the way. Now let's
pretend we're two old darkies sitting on a log, you push against me and
I'll push against you, you're Jim and I'm Uncle Joseph. 'What yo' crowding
me for, Jim,'" he squeezed up gently against her, and Phyl jumped to her
feet.

He glanced up at her, sideways, laughing, and for the life of her she
could not be angry.

"Don't you think we'd better go and look at the garden?" said she.

"In a minute, sit down again. I won't knock against you. It was only my
fun. We'll pretend I'm Pap, and you're Maria Pinckney, if you like. You've
let your cigarette go out."

"So I have."

"You can light it from mine."

Phyl hesitated and was lost.

It was the nearest thing to a kiss, and as she drew back with the lighted
cigarette between her lips, she felt a not unpleasant sense of wickedness,
such as the virtuous boy feels when led to adventure by the bad boy.
Sitting on a log, smoking cigarettes, talking familiarly with a stranger,
taking a light from him in such a fashion with her face so close to his
that his eyes-- They smoked in silence for a moment.

Then Silas spoke:

"Do you ever feel lonesome?" said he.

"Awfully--sometimes."

"So do I."

Silence for a moment. Then:

"I go off to Charleston when I feel like that--once in a fortnight or
so--Where do you live in Charleston?"

"I live with Miss Pinckney--I thought you knew."

"You didn't say that. You only said you came with her."

"Well, I live with her at Vernons. I'm Irish, y' know. My--my father died
in Charleston, and I came from Ireland to live with Miss Pinckney. Mr.
Richard Pinckney is my guardian."

"Your which? Dick Pinckney your guardian! Why, he's not older than I
am--that fellow your guardian--why, he wears a flannel petticoat."

"He doesn't," cried Phyl, flinging away the cigarette, which had become
noxious, and roused to sudden anger by the slighting tone of the other.
"What do you