ed aside and
entered. The place was still and hushed; the light dim and beautiful
with color; on the altar, tapers burned before the mother and child;
everywhere there was a faint odor of incense.

Pocahontas wandered softly here and there, soothed by the peace,
comforted by the music. On one side there was a small chapel, built by
piety in memory of death. Pocahontas entered it. Here, too, lights
burned upon the altar, shedding a soft, golden radiance that was caught
and reflected by the silver candlesticks and the gold and crystal of
the vases. On the steps of the altar was a great basket of roses; and
through a memorial window streamed the sunlight, casting on the
tesselated pavement a royal wealth of color, blue and gold and crimson;
against the dark walls marble tablets gleamed whitely. Near one of
them, a tiny shield, a man stood with his head bent and his shoulder
resting against a carved oak column--Nesbit Thorne, and the tablet bore
the inscription: "Allen Thorne, obiit Jan. 14th, 18--, aetat 4 years."

Pocahontas drew back, her breath coming in short gasps; the movement of
the music quickened, grew stronger, fiercer, with a crash of cords.
Thorne did not move; his head was bent, his profile toward her; about
his pose, his whole form, was a look of desolation. His face was
stern, its outlines sharp, its expression that of a man who had had
hard measure meted out to him, and who knew it, and mutinied against
the decree. He did not see her, he was not conscious of her presence,
and the knowledge that it was so, sent a pang through her heart. A
wave of pity swept over her; an impulse struggled into life, to go to
him, to take his hand in hers, to press close to his side, to fill the
void of his future with her love. What held her back? Was it pride?
Why could not she go to him? His unconsciousness of her presence held
her aloof--made her afraid with a strange, new fear.

Footsteps neared, echoing strangely; the music had sunk to a minor
cadence which seemed to beat the measure of their advance. The eyes of
the woman were filled with a strained expectancy. Into the waiting
place, framed by the central arch, came the figure of a man--strongly
built, of noble air, of familiar presence. Eyes brave and true and
faithful met hers gravely, a hand was outstretched toward her.

Pocahontas shivered, and her heart beat with heavy, muffled strokes.
The counter influences of her life were drawing to the death