nature.

When his sister was out of hearing, Berkeley reopened the topic of Jim
Byrd. He was standing at the mantle filling his pipe, which he
balanced dextrously against one of the ornaments, and his back was
toward his mother as he spoke.

"Mother," he questioned, "did it ever occur to you that Jim might grow
fond of Pocahontas--might want her for a wife, in fact? I fancy
something of the sort has happened, and that he came to grief. He has
been depressed and unhappy for months; and neither business, nor
trouble about the old place can account for his shunning us in the way
he has been doing lately. I don't believe he's been inside this house
twice in the last three months."

"Yes, my dear, I used often to think of it--long before Jim thought of
it himself, I believe, Berkeley. He spoke to Princess this summer, and
she refused him. She did not tell me about it; but from little things
I could guess pretty accurately. It's a great disappointment to me,
for I scarcely remember when the hope that they might love each other
first dawned on my mind. Mary Mason and I were warm friends, as well
as cousins, and it seemed natural that our children should marry."

Berkeley knew that his mother had wished him to marry Belle or Susie,
and that this was not the first time that she had been disappointed in
her desire for another Byrd-Mason match. Had Temple lived, Nina Byrd
would have been his wife: the two had been sweethearts from babyhood.

Mrs. Mason sighed regretfully. "I wish it could have been," she said;
"Jim is such a good fellow, and was always gentle and careful with the
little girls, even when he grew a great rough lad; such a little
chevalier in his feelings, too. I remember one Christmas just after
the war, when he was about fourteen, the children wanted some Christmas
green to decorate the parlor. It was the fall you were in the South,
and they wanted to make the room pretty to welcome you home again.
Susie, Nina and my two girls, went over into the Shirley woods to get
it, and Jim went with them. They found plenty of lovely holly, but no
mistletoe for a long time; you know how scarce it is around here. At
last Pocahontas 'spied a splendid bunch, full of pure, waxen berries,
way up in the top of a tall oak tree, and she set her heart at once on
having it. There had been heavy sleet the night before, and every limb
was caked with ice--slippery as glass. Climbing was doubly dangerous,
and Grace begg