ed to the country. Strange dogs don't do so
well over unaccustomed ground. It's a shame that you had no dog, and
dreadfully neglectful of the boys not to have noticed. No, no!" as
Thorne moved away from the coop, "you must not leave all those; you
have none for yourself, and you'll be disgraced as a sportsman if you
go home empty-handed. They won't believe you've killed a thing. We
_never_ do, when our men come home with nothing to show. Jim Byrd
never dared face Nina, or me, without, at least, half a dozen birds."

"Who is Jim Byrd?" demanded Thorne quickly. "I never heard you mention
him before."

"Haven't you?" regarding him with great surprise. "Well that is
curious, for he is one of our oldest, dearest friends, Berke's and
mine. A year ago I couldn't have imagined life possible without Jim's
dear old face near us. He formerly lived at Shirley; it was the Byrd
patrimony for generations. His sisters were the closest girl-friends
Grace and I ever had, and for years the two families were as one.
There were financial troubles handed down from father to son, growing
always greater; the old place had finally to be sold, and your uncle
bought it. Jim is in Mexico now, engineering, and the girls are all
married. I wonder you have never heard me mention Jim. I think, and
speak of him frequently. We all do."

So perfectly unembarrassed was the girl's manner, that despite a faint
wistfulness discernible in her face, Thorne put aside the half-thought
formulated in his brain by the familiar mention of Jim Byrd's name. He
allowed himself to be persuaded to re-pocket part of the game,
particularly a brace of ducks, which the soul of the general loved. As
he rose from his seat on the chicken-coop, Pocahontas noticed the
handsome gun beside him, and leaning forward with a woman's instinctive
desire to handle dangerous things, she took it in her hands with an
exclamation of admiration.

"Is it loaded?" she inquired, raising it to her shoulder, and laying
her finger lightly on the trigger.

"Yes," Thorne answered, drawing nearer, "take care, Miss Mason. It
always makes me nervous to see a gun in a woman's hands. Don't pull
the trigger, please; the charge is heavy and the recoil will hurt you."

But the warning came too late; intentionally, or unintentionally, she
_did_ pull the trigger, and the gun carelessly held, recoiled sharply,
striking against her shoulder with such force that she staggered and
would ha