alking
beside her in the sunshine; he decided that "Berke was a deuced lucky
fellow, and had fallen on his feet," and he was glad of it.

After awhile they turned into an unfrequented walk, and Blanche seized
her opportunity. She made Jim sit down on a bench under an old elm
tree and seated herself beside him. Then, insensibly and deftly, she
turned the talk to Virginia. She spoke of his old home, and praised
its beauty, and told him how a love for it had grown up in her heart,
although she was a stranger; she spoke of the cordial, friendly people,
and of the kindness they had extended to her family; of Warner, his
illness, death, and burial beside poor Temple Mason. Then she glided
on to Pocahontas, and spoke of her friend with enthusiasm, almost with
reverence; then, seeing that his interest was aroused, she told him as
simply and concisely as she could the story of her cousin's love for
Pocahontas, and the position in which the affair now stood.

"I know that she loves him," Blanche said quietly, "loves him as he
loves her, and that she is breaking her own heart, as well as his, by
this hesitation. It seems to me so wrong. What is a scruple compared
to the happiness of a life? The child is dead, all connection between
Nesbit and that heartless woman is severed forever. She is no more to
him than she is to you, or to Berkeley. I think that Pocahontas would
give way, but for Berkeley, for the influences of her old life. I
think some one ought to speak to Berkeley, to make him see how wrong he
is, how hard, how almost cruel. I have spoken, but I'm of Nesbit's
blood, on Nesbit's side, and my words haven't the weight that words
would have coming from a person who is outside of it all, and yet who
belongs _to them_. If YOU would speak, Mr. Byrd, I think it would do
good. Berkeley would listen to you, and would come to look at this
matter in its true light. Pocahontas is breaking her heart, and
Nesbit's heart, and she ought not to be let do it." There were tears
in Blanche's eyes and in her voice as she spoke, and she laid one small
hand on Jim's arm appealingly.

Jim never moved; he sat like a man carved out of stone and listened.
He knew that Pocahontas had never loved _him_, as he had wanted her to
love him; but the knowledge that her love was given to another man, was
bitter. He said no word, only listened with a jealous hatred of the
man, who had supplanted him, growing in his breast.

Blanche looke