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She rose up and resumed her way, striking along the glen to the open park, yet still the memory of that call pursued her. "Phylice!" It seemed Mr. Pinckney's voice, it was his voice, she was sure of that now, and she amused herself by wondering why his voice had suddenly popped up in her head.
Red hair when it is of the right colour is lovely, and Phylice Berknowles' hair was of the right red, worn in a tail she was only fifteen so long that she could bite the end with ease and comfort when she was in a meditative mood, a habit of perdition that no schoolmistress could break her of.
Sitting like this she suddenly started and turned. Some one had called her: "Phylice!" For a moment she fancied that it was a real voice, and then she knew that it was only a voice in her head, one of those sounds we hear when we are half asleep, one of those hails from dreamland that come now as the ringing of a bell that never has rung, or the call of a person who has never spoken.
About a week later, coming down to breakfast one morning, she found a letter on her plate. A letter with American stamps on it and the address, Miss Phylice Berknowles, Merrion Square, Dublin, Ireland, written 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.
'Scuse my fooling, won't you I wouldn't with a stranger, but you don't seem a stranger somehow though I don't know your name." "Phylice Berknowles," said Phyl, glancing up at him and half wondering how it was that, despite his good looks, his manhood, and their total unacquaintanceship, she felt as little constrained in his presence as though he were a boy. "And my name is Silas Grangerson.
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