ind a clump of evergreens; they were raised
in surprise or excitement, and sounded shrill and jarring. In the
distance a nurse pushed a basket-carriage carelessly; she was talking
to a workman who slouched beside her, and the child was crying. Two
sparrows near at hand, quarreled and fought over a bit of string.

His anger burned against Thorne. He could see no good in his rival; no
tragedy, no pathos, in the situation. Had his life gone
wrong?--Doubtless the fault had been his. Did he suffer? Jim felt a
brute joy in the knowledge of his pain.

What was that the young lady had said? Thorne had been divorced--the
woman who had been his wife lived--there were prejudices; he knew them
all; a barrier existed; his heart leaped. Here was hope, here was
vengeance.

A cloud passed over the sun, eclipsing its brightness; a chill was on
the face of nature; a dead twig, broken by the squirrel in his gambols,
fell at his feet.

He had been asked to speak, to exert his influence, to smooth the path
for his rival. He would _not_ speak; why should he speak? Was it any
business of his? Nay; was it not rather his duty to be silent, or to
throw such influence as he possessed into the other scale? Should he
aid to bring about a thing which he had been taught to regard with
aversion? Was it not his duty as a man, as a Christian, to _increase_
the prejudice, to build higher the barrier? Was it not better that
Thorne should suffer, that Pocahontas should suffer, as he himself was
suffering, than that wrong should be done?

The devil is never subtler than when he assumes the garb of priest.

And if he did not speak--more, if he should solidify, by every means in
his power, this barrier of prejudice into a wall of principle, which
should separate these two forever, what might not be the result? Jim's
strong frame shook like a leaf. His abnormally-excited imagination
leaped forward and constructed possibilities that thrilled him. The
spot on his hand that her lips had touched, burned.

A little girl came down the walk, trundling a hoop; it struck against
Jim's foot and fell over. The helpful instinct that was in him made
him stoop and lift it for her; the child, a tiny thing, pushed back her
curls and looked up at him with grave, wide-open eyes; suddenly her
face dimpled; a smile like sunshine broke over it, and she raised her
sweet lips to his, to kiss her thanks.

What had happened? A child's look, a child's kiss;