e upon her."

Pocahontas listened with her eyes on the folded hands in her lap,
realizing for the first time how deeply the man beside her loved her.
Would any other man ever love her with such grand unselfishness, she
wondered, ever give all, receive nothing in return, and still give on.
_Why_ could not she love him? Why was her heart still and speechless,
and only her mind responsive. He was worthy of any woman's love; why
could not she give him hers?

Ask the question how she would, the answer was always the same. She
did not love him; she could not love him; but the reason was beyond her.

After a little while Jim spoke again: "When you were a little girl," he
said, "I always was your knight. In all our plays, and troubles, it
was always _me_ you wanted. My boat was the one you liked best, and my
dog and horse would come to your whistle as quickly as to mine. I was
the one always to care for you and carry out your will. That can never
be again, I know, but don't forget me, Princess. Let the thought of
your old friend come to you sometimes, not to trouble you, only to
remind you when things are hard and rough, and you need comfort, that
there's a heart in the world that would shed its last drop to help you."

With quick impulse Pocahontas leaned forward and caught his hand in
hers, and before he could divine her intention, bent her head and laid
her soft, warm lips against it. When she lifted her eyes to his there
were tears in them, and her voice trembled as she said: "I will think
of you often, old friend; of how noble you are, and how unselfish. You
have been generous to me all my life; far more generous than I have
ever deserved."

As they arose, to return to the house, the jasmin blossom fell from the
girl's hair to the ground at Jim's feet; he stooped and raised it.
"May I keep it?" he said.

She bowed her head, silently.

CHAPTER V.

In the dining-room at Lanarth stood Pocahontas, an expression of
comical dismay upon her face, a pile of dusty volumes on the floor at
her feet. The bookcase in the recess by the fireplace, with yawning
doors and empty shelves, stood swept and garnished, awaiting
re-possession. In a frenzy of untimely cleanliness, she had torn all
the books from the repose of years, and now that the deed was beyond
recall, she was a prey to disgust, and given over to repentance. The
morning promised to be sultry, and the pile was very big; outside bugs
and bees and oth