itten in a
firm, bold hand.

Mrs. Hennessey was not down and Mr. Hennessey had departed for the office,
so Phyl had the breakfast table to herself--and the letter.

She knew at once whom it was from, even before she read the postmark,
"Charleston."

Pinckney, the man who had been in her thoughts during the past six or
seven days, the man who had left Ireland righteously disgusted with her,
the man to whom she had said, "I hate you!"

The scene flashed before her as she tore the envelope open, his sudden
blaze of anger, the way he had torn the papers up, his departure. What was
he going to say to her now? She flushed at the thought that this thing in
her hand might prove to be his opinion of her in cold blood, a reproof, a
remonstrance--she opened the folded sheet--ah!

"Dear Phyl,

"Aunt Maria was greatly disappointed when I returned here without
you, she had quite made up her mind that you were coming back with
me. We both lost our temper that day, but I was the worse, for I said
a word I shouldn't have said, and for which I apologise. Aunt Maria
says it was the Pinckney temper. However that may be, we shall be
delighted to see you. Mrs. Van Dusen leaves on the 6th of next month.
I am sending all particulars to Mr. Hennessey. You could meet Mrs.
Van Dusen at Liverpool and go with her as far as New York. Let me
have a cable to know if you are coming. Pinckney, Vernons,
Charleston, U. S. A., is the cable address.

"Your affectionate guardian--also cousin--
"R. Pinckney."

Then underneath, in an angular, old-fashioned hand, one of those
handwritings we associate with crossed letters, rosewood desks, valentines
and wafers:

"Be sure to come. I am very anxious to see you, and I only hope you
will like me as much as I am sure to like you.

"Maria Pinckney."

Phyl caught her breath back when she read this and her eyes filled with
tears. It was the woman's voice that touched her, coming after Pinckney's
business-like and jerky sentences.

Then she sat with the letter before her, looking at the new prospect it
had opened for her.

Was Pinckney still angry, despite his talk about the Pinckney temper; had
he written not of his own free will but at the desire of Maria Pinckney?
She read the thing over again without finding any solution to this
question.

But o