Peter wandered by old walled gardens in which were set wrought-iron gates that allowed the passer-by a glimpse of greenery and flowers, but prevented encroachments upon family privacy.  Every now and then a curving balustrade, a gable, a window, or an old doorway of surpassing charm made his fingers itch for pencil and paper.  He reflected, without bitterness, that the doors of every one of these fine old houses had on a time opened almost automatically to a Champneys.  Some of these folk were kith and kin, as his mother had remembered and they, perhaps, had forgotten.  This didn’t worry him in the least:  the real interest the houses had for Peter was that this one had a picturesque garden gate, that one a door with a fan-light he’d like to sketch.

He climbed St. Michael’s belfry stairway and looked over the city, and toward the sea; and later wandered through its historic churchyard.  One very simple memorial held him longest, because it is the only one of its kind among all those records of state honor and family pride, and seems rather to belong to the antique Greek and Roman world which accepted death as the final fact, than to a Carolina churchyard.

SARAH JOHNSTON
born in this province
29th May 1690
Died 26th April 1774
In the 84th year of her age.

How lovd how valu’d once avails Thee not
To whom related or by whom begot
A heap of dust alone remains of Thee.

That covered the Champneyses, too.  To whom related or by whom begot, a heap of dust alone remained of them.  So much for all human pride!  Peter left St. Michael’s dead to slumber in peace, and walked for an hour on the Battery, and in Legare Street, where life is brightest in the old city.  All good Charlestonians think that after the final resurrection there may be a new heaven and a new earth for others, but for themselves a house in Legare Street or on the Battery.

Peter presently reappeared in Riverton, discreetly clad in his customary clothes, the habits of thrift being yet so firmly ingrained in him that he couldn’t easily wear his best clothes on a week-day.

“Peter!  You Peter Champneys!  Look here a minute, will you?” Mrs. Beach called, as he was passing her house.

Peter stopped.  His smiling countenance somewhat astonished Mrs. Beach.

“Peter, I’ve heard about Sam Humphreys firing you on account of me getting mad at you about that muzzle.  Now, while I know in my heart you’d have been fired about something or other, sooner or later, I do wish to my Lord it hadn’t been on account of me.  Not that I don’t think you’re an impudent young rapscallion, that never sets his nose inside a church door, and insults old women with muzzles.  But I knew your mother well, and I wish it wasn’t on account of me Sam Humphreys discharged you.”  There was real feeling in the testy old lady’s face and voice.

“Don’t you bother your head about it one minute more, Mrs. Beach.  All I’m sorry for is that I appeared to be impertinent to you, when I hadn’t any such notion.  I was thinking about something else at the time.  So you’ll just have to forgive me.”