use of some want inherent in his
nature, something that spoke vaguely in his words and his actions, in his
handsome face and in his careless and graceful manner.

All the same she could not free herself from the impression he had made
upon her, she could not drive him from her mind, he had in some way
paralysed her volition, called forces to his aid from some unknown part of
her nature, perhaps with those kisses which she still felt upon the very
face of her soul.

She came down to breakfast, and afterwards finding herself alone with Miss
Pinckney, she took Silas's letter from her pocket and handed it to her.
She had been debating in her own mind all breakfast time as to whether she
ought to show the letter; the struggle had been between her instinct to do
the right thing, and a powerful antagonism to this instinct which was a
new thing in her.

The latter won.

And then, lo and behold, when she found herself alone with Miss Pinckney
in the sunlit breakfast room, almost against her will and just as though
her hand had moved of its own volition, she put it in her pocket and
produced the letter.

Miss Pinckney read it.

"Well, of all the crazy creatures!" said she. "Why, he has only met you
once. He's mad! No, he isn't--he's a Grangerson. I know them."

She stopped short and re-read the letter, turned it about and then laid it
down.

"Just as if he'd known you for years. And you scarcely spoke to him. Did
he _say_ anything to you as if he cared for you?"

"No, he didn't," said Phyl quite truthfully.

"Did he look at you as if he cared for you?"

"No," replied the other, dreading another question. But Miss Pinckney did
not put it. She could not conceive a man kissing a girl who had never
betrayed his feelings for her by word or glance.

"Well, it gets me. It does indeed; acting like a dumb creature and then
writing this-- Do you care for _him_?"

"I--I--no--you see, I don't know him--much."

"Well, he seems to know you pretty well, there's no doubt about one thing,
Silas Grangerson can make up his mind pretty quick. He won't come to
Vernons, won't he? Well, maybe it's better for him not, for I've no
patience with oddities. That's what's wrong with him, he's an oddity, and
it's those sort of people make the trouble in life--they're worse than
whisky and cards for bringing unhappiness. Years and years and years
ago--I'm telling you this though I've never told it to any one else--Seth
Grangerson, Silas's fat