heartily and rendered them every assistance in his power. Then, in the
rough hospital of the hostile prison, the strange, sad waiting for the
end, followed by the stranger, sadder home-coming. It was a pitiful
story, common enough both north and south--but none the less pitiful
for its commonness.

With her head down on her brother's shoulder, Pocahontas sobbed
convulsively. She was familiar with the outlines of the tale, and knew
vaguely of the weeks of anxiety that had lined her mother's gentle face
and silvered her brown hair, but of all particulars she was ignorant.
She had been very young at the time these sad events occurred; the
young brother sleeping in the shadow of the cedars in the old
burying-ground was scarcely more than a name to her, and the memories
of her childhood had faded somewhat, crowded out by the cheerful
realities of her glad girl-life.

When she broke the silence, it was very softly. "Berkeley," she said,
"it was kindly done of that Federal officer to let us know. This is
the third letter he wrote about poor Temple; the others must have
miscarried."

"They did; and this one only reached us just in time. You see,
communication with the south in those early days was more than
uncertain. If Roy hadn't happened to be in Richmond, it's a question
whether I should have received this one. It was kindly done, as you
say, and this General Smith was a kindly man. I shall never forget his
consideration for my mother, nor the kindness he showed poor Temple.
But for his aid we could hardly have managed at the last, in spite of
Roy's efforts. We owe him a debt of gratitude I'd fain repay. God
bless him!"

"Amen!" echoed Pocahontas, softly.

CHAPTER VI.

One bright, crisp morning about the middle of October, Pocahontas stood
in the back yard surrounded by a large flock of turkeys. They were
handsome birds of all shades, from lightish red to deep glossy black;
the sunlight on their plumage made flashes of iridescent color, green,
purple, and blue, and that royal shade which seems to combine and
reflect the glory of all three. Their heads were bent picking up the
corn their mistress threw from the little basket in her hand, but
occasionally the great gobblers would pause in their meal, and puff
themselves out and spread their tails and throw their crimson heads
back against their shining feathers, and proudly strut backward and
forward, to the admiration, doubtless, of their mates.