from pain?

If only the scruple would die! If only the old influences would lose
their hold; if only she could see this thing as the world saw it. Was
she made different from others, that her life should be molded on other
lines than _their_ lives? God, above! _Why_ should she suffer, and
make Thorne suffer?

Her mother, Berkeley, the dead brother whom she had exalted into a
hero, the memory of the brave men and noble women from whom she had
sprung, the old traditions, the old associations rose, in her excited
fancy, and arrayed themselves on one side. Against them in serried
ranks came compassion, all the impulses of true womanhood toward
self-sacrifice and love.

The loneliness of the crowded hotel oppressed her; the consciousness of
the life that environed but did not touch her, gave birth to a yearning
to get away from it all--out into the sunshine and the sweet air, and
the warmth and comfort of nature. If she could get away into some
still, leafy place, she could think.

Hastily arraying herself, she left her chamber and descended the broad
stairway. She passed through the hall, and out into the sunshine of
the busy street; and Jim, who, unseen by her, was standing in the
clerk's office, turned and looked after her. A troubled expression,
like the shadow of a cloud, passed over his face, and he followed her
silently.

In the street it was better. There were people, little children, a
sense of life, a sense of humanity, and over all, around all, the warm
sunlight. Comfort and help abounded. A woman, weighed down with a
heavy burden, paused, bewildered, in the middle of a crossing--a man
helped her; a child stood crying on a doorstep--a larger child soothed
it; an ownerless dog looked pitifully into a woman's face--she stooped
and stroked its head with her ungloved hand. The longing for the
isolation of nature slowly gave place to a recognition of the community
of nature.

A quiet street branched off from the crowded thoroughfare. Pocahontas
turned into it and walked on. The roar of traffic deadened as she left
it further and further behind; the passers became fewer. It was the
forenoon and the people were at work; the houses rose tall on either
hand; the street was still and almost deserted.

A man passed with a barrow of flowers--roses, geraniums, jasmin; their
breath made the air fragrant. In a stately old church near by some one
was playing; a solemn, measured movement. Pocahontas turn