of you to come," said Ishmael, taking the little
hand that lay idle against a flounce. She made no motion to withdraw it
or to move away, and glancing up at her he saw there were tears in her
eyes. As he looked they slipped over her lashes and rolled down her
cheeks. She made no effort to stay them, nor did she sob--she cried with
the effortless sorrow of a tired child.

"Phoebe! why, what's the matter? Are you unhappy about anything?
Phoebe, do tell me what it is?"

She shook her head but stammered out:

"It's nothing, but I'm sort of frightened.... I can't tell you about
what. And I thought you might be able to help me and put it all right,
but you can't."

"How do you know I can't? You haven't tried me."

"Yes, I have," she said, half-laughing now through her tears that were
already dry upon her cheeks. Whatever thought, whatever fear, whatever
glimpsing of dread possibilities in herself or in some other person had
brought her to his side that afternoon was already weighing less
unbearably upon her, though she had failed in her attempt to find an
easing. Her mind simply could not sustain for long one idea, and in the
passing moment she was always able to find distraction. She found it now
in Vassie, who came sweeping in, slightly flushed and with a lighter
manner than that with which she had ushered in Phoebe. She bore her
off with promise of tea and a look at new gowns with none the less
determination, but the sight of tearstains on Phoebe's cheek at once
softened and relieved her.

Ishmael was left with a vague feeling that he had failed Phoebe in
something she had expected of him. Yet for himself he was cheered by her
visit, for it had served to bring him out of that dead, still peace
where he had been for so many days, that had not lightened even with
returning strength, but that had been swept away by the breath of the
commonplace Phoebe brought with her.

As to Vassie, she was occupied with wondering whether the passionate yet
careless caresses that Killigrew had lavished on her that afternoon
"meant anything" or not. He had told her that in France they always
said that "love was an affair of the skin...." And she knew she had a
perfect skin. Killigrew had told her it was perfect to stroke as well as
gaze upon; none of her English swains had ever told her that. She always
looked on Killigrew as a foreigner because he was so alien to herself.

Yet that evening he spent with Ishmael and the Parson, and t