d his
pottage; let the matter end there, and each be satisfied.

But Thorne was _not_ satisfied. He had married a transcendently
beautiful woman, but he had no wife. Half the men of his acquaintance
envied him, but he did not rejoice, nor plume himself. He wanted his
wife to lean on him, to clothe the strength of his manhood with the
grace of her womanhood--and his wife showed herself not only capable of
standing alone, but of pushing him away with both hands. His mood
underwent many changes, and finally he let her go, with some disgust,
and a deep inward curse at his past folly. It was not a pleasant
retrospect.

Night had fallen; the air was still and brooding; across the sky
scudded ragged masses of clouds, advanced guard of the storm that was
mustering along the horizon; everywhere there was a feeling that
foreboded snow. In the sky, few stars were visible, and those
glimmered with a cold, wan light; at the zenith a solitary planet
burned steadfastly. The road stretched away into the night; it was
dark under the trees beside the fence; away in the distance the echo of
footsteps sounded.

Thorne thought of Pocahontas. His face softened, and his eyes shone
tenderly. How true she was, how thorough and noble. Her pure face and
fearless gray eyes rose before him; with the love of such a woman to
bless him, her hand in his, her influence surrounding him, to what
might not a man aspire! There were no insincerities, no half-truths,
no wheels within wheels, such as Ethel delighted in, about this other
woman. Even her occasional fits of impatience and temper were indulged
in frankly--a sudden flurry of tempest and then the bright, warm
sunshine; no long-continued murkiness, and heavy sodden depression for
hours and days.

Did she love him? As he asked himself the question, Thorne's heart
bounded, and the blood coursed hotly through his veins. He had tried
to make her love him--had he succeeded? Thorne was no fatuous fool,
blinded by his own vanity, but his power over women had been often
tried, fully proven, and he had confidence in himself. Once only had
he failed of securing the love he sought, and it was the memory of that
failure which made him pause and question now. He was not sure. She
liked him, was pleasant and gracious, but he had seen her so to other
men. Never until this evening had she changed color at his touch. She
liked him--and Thorne felt within him a fierce desire to change her
pas