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'I'm the finest apple on the tree, yet no one has picked them for all their labels, because every one has guessed that they aren't That crab apple labelling itself a pippin and daring to laugh at you! And that long loony Silas Grangerson, a man without a penny to bless himself with, a creature whose character is just kinks. Well, I'm sure pass me the butter laughing at you.
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.
Richard had taken to avoiding her, she became aware of that. She fancied that she displeased him. If she had only known! Silas Grangerson came to town on the Wednesday, driving in and reaching the Charleston Hotel about five o'clock in the afternoon. The Grangersons scarcely ever used the railway.
But now, she sat voiceless beside her companion, answering only in monosyllables when he spoke; a voice began to trouble her, a voice that repeated the half statement, half question, over and over again. "You are running away to be married to Silas Grangerson?" She was running away from her troubles, from the prospect of returning to Ireland, from the idea of banishment from Vernons.
"You've flushed now," said she. When they came round to the front of the house they found Colonel Grangerson and Miss Pinckney coming down the steps. They were going to the garden in search of Phyl. "We've been looking at the horses," said Silas, after he had greeted Miss Pinckney.
"What are you thinking about, Silas?" asked old Seth Grangerson as they sat at breakfast. "I'm thinking of a new rabbit trap, suh," responded the son. The rabbit trap seemed to give him a good deal of food for thought during the week that followed; food that made him hilarious and gloomy by turns, restless also. Had he known it, Phyl away at Charleston, was equally restless.
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.
"Richard," said Miss Pinckney, "Seth Grangerson is as well as you are. I didn't go to see him because he was ill, I went because of Phyl. She did a stupid thing and I went to set matters right." She explained the whole affair. How Phyl had met Silas, how he had persuaded her to get into the phaëton with him, the accident and all the rest.
It was Silas Grangerson, and Phyl thought he was the handsomest and most graceful person she had ever seen in her life. Silas was a shade over six feet in height, dark, straight, slim yet perfectly proportioned; his face was extraordinary, the most vivid thing one would meet in a year's journey, and with a daring, and at times, almost a mad look unforgettable when once glimpsed.
Miss Pinckney carefully put the sheet she was examining on one side, opened the parcel and looked at the wool. "I met Silas Grangerson," said Phyl as the other was examining the purchase with head turned on one side, holding it now in this light, now in that. "Silas Grangerson! Why, where on earth has he sprung from?" asked Miss Pinckney in a voice of surprise.
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