PRINCESS

Auckland Star, Volume XXIV, Issue 91, 19 April 1893, Page 6

PRINCESS

BY M.G.M. CLELLAND

CXBL__E__l_ESin. [COrfTI^TTED.] rose from the. table vhe lingered awhile watching his mother gather the ctips and saucers into the •waiter in readiness for Aunt Rachel and Pocahontas collect scraps for the dogs, two of which were already polling impatient, wistful noses into the room. Beyond the threshold they were not allowed to intrude, but they stood in the passage outside the open door and whined and indulged in sharp "yaps" of protest against hope deferred. When they saw their mistress advancing with a heaped up plate of food both gave reins to their joy and jumped and barked around her with delight. Pocahontas loved animals, the nobleness and fidelity of their instincts harmonized with the large faithfulness of her own nature.

When his sister was out of hearing Berkeley reopened the topic of Jim Byrd. He was standing at the mantel filling his pipe, which he balanced dexterously against one of the ornaments, and Ms back was toward bis 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 tho 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 tilings 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 regretfVilly. "I ■wish it could have been," she sa!d; "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 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 begged him not to try, but that foolish Pocahontas looked disappointed and Jim dashed right at the tree. It was a terribly foolhardy thing to do, and Grace said it made her sick to watch him; every minute she expected to see him slip and come crashing to the ground. The little girls all cried, and Grace boxed Jim's ears the instant he was safe on the ground again with the mistletoe. The children came, home in great excitement, Pocahontas with the mistletoe hugged tight in her arms and tears pouring down her cheeks. When I scolded Jim for his recklessness he opened those honest hazel eyes of his at me in surmise and said, 'But Princess ■wanted it,' as if that were quite sufficient reason for risking his life. Poor little Princess." After a moment she resumed: "I wish she could have loved him in the way we wish. Marriage is a terrible risk for a £irl like her. Sh6 is too straightforward, too uncompromisingly intolerant of every flay littleness, to have a very peaceful life. She has grown up so different from other girls; so full of ideals and romance; she belongs, in thoughts and motives, to the last century rather than to this, if what I hear be true. She_ is large hearted and has a great capacity for affection, but she is self willed, and the could be hard upon occasion. If she Should fall into weak or wicked hands she would both endure and inflict untold Buffering. And there is within her, too, endless power of generosity and self sacrifice. Poor child! with Jim I could have trusted her; but she couldn't love faim, so there's nothing to be done." • "Why couldn't she?" demanded Berkeley argumentatively. "She'll never do any better; Jim's a handsome fellow, as men go, brave, honorable and sweet tempered. What more does she want? It looks to me like sheer perversity. Mrs Mason smiled indulgently at her son's masculine obtuseness. The subtleties of women were so far beyond his comprehension that it was hardly worth While to endeavor to make him understand. She made the effort, however, despite its uaelessness. "It isn't perversity, Berkeley she eaid; "I hardly realize, myself, why the thin- should have seemed so impossible. I supnose, having always regarded Jim as a kindly old playmate, and big Motherly friend, the idea of associating SStaent with him appeared^jjgd. Had they ever been separated the -afflux ££ht have hM a different termination; St there has never been a break m their intercourse-Jim has always been ht the -me. ThaWtd with a girl like Princess. It is too com Opiate, too devoid of -f^^ certainty. Yes, my dear 1 kno*thai in your eyes this is folly, but at the same time it is nature You don understand. Princess, I fear, sets undue Se on intellect, holding less bnlhan endowments cheap bead *£ Ami W must admit, Berkeley, dearly welovo Jim Byrd, and noble fe low as he is c Jaa not the intellectual £.wer winch JJUwfc admiration. WJ*h_jHj»*

respect for.intellect, I can see that Princess greatly overrates it. She has often declared that unless-a,man were intellectually her superior sh_ could never love him."

' 'Intellectualiy—a £. " , _ck!" scoffed Berkeley contemptuc- ... "She don't know what sho wants or what is good for her. Women rarely do. They make their matrimonial selections like the blindest of bats, the most egregious of fools, and then, when the mischief is done, go in for unending sackcloth or a divorce court. Pocahontas will get hold of a fellow some day who will wring her heart —with her rubbishing longing after novelty and intellect and fine scorn of homespun truth and loyalty. Were I a woman I should esteem the size of my husband's heart and the sweetness of his temper matter of more importance than the bigness of his brain or the freshness of the acquaintance."

"Very true, my son," assented Mrs. Mason gently, "but you are powerless to alter women. Their hearts ■ must go as nature wills, and lookers on can only pray God to guide them rightly. But, Berkeley, you are unjust to your sister. Pocahontas lias sound discrimination and a very clear judgment. Her inability to meet our wishes is no proof that her choice will fall unworthily."

Berkeley made no response in words, but he looked unconvinced, and soon withdrew to attend to the plantation, indulging in profound conclusions about women, which were most o_ them erroneous. In the afternoon Pocahontas, providing herself with a book and a gayly colored feather fan, established herself comfortably in the old split bottomed rocking chair in the deep shadow of the porch. The day had been close and sultry, and even the. darkened rooms felt stifling: outside it was better,, although the morning freshness had evaporated and that of evening had not yet come. The sun sank slowly westward, sending long rays across the bosom of the river, whose waters were so still that they gleamed with opalescent splendor. The slender leaves of the old willows at the foot of the lawn drooped exhaustedly, showing all their silver linings, and the sky was one tawny blaze of color. The sailboats in sight rocked gently with the sluggish flow of the current, and drifted rather than sailed on their course.

Once a noisy, throbbing steamer, instinct with life and purpose, dashed by tuinultuously, churning the still water with impatient wheels, and rupturing the slumberous, air with its discordant whistle. It jarred upon the quiet beauty of the scene, and it was a relief when it swept around a bend of the. river, leaving only a trail of blue smoke, which was harmonious.

One of the setters who had secreted himself in the house during the hot hours, stepped out with overdone innocence and stretched himself in a shaded corner, panting and yawning dismally.

Pocahontas formed the only bit of coolness in the picture, sitting in the shadow of the, old porch in her pretty white dress, with a cape jasmine blossom showing purely against the bronze knot of her hair and another among the laces on her breast. The volume of Emerson selected for the enlargement of her mental vision lay unheeded in her lap, and the big fan moved lazily as the gray eyes gazed and gazed out over the parched lawn and the glistening river until the glare nearly blinded them.

She was thinking of Jim, and feeling pitiful and sad over her old friend, who must break away from every home association, aud far from kindred and family, among strange faces and unfamiliar surroundings, make for himself a new life. She was sorry for Jim—grieved for his pain in parting, for his disappointment in regard to herself, for her own inability to give him the love he longed for. She would have loved him if it had been in her power; she "honestly regretted that the calm, true, sisterly affection she felt for him could not be converted into something warmer. Her friends wished it; his friends wished it. It was the "natural and. proper thing to have happened, and yet with her it had not happened.

With Pocahontas, marriage was a very sacred thing, not to be contemplated lightly, or entered into at all without the sanctincation of a pure, .unselfish love. If she should marry Jim now, it would be with the knowledge that the depth of her nature were unstirred, the true, rich gold still hidden. It did not seem to her that her old playfellow's hand was the one destined to etir the one or • discover the other. She might judge wrongly, but so it appeared to her, and-she was too loyal to Jim to imagine for an instant that he would be satisfied with aught save her very best. The evening freshened as the sun went down, a vagrant breeze stole out from some leafy covert and disported itself blithely. The big Irish setter moved from the corner to the top step and ceased yawning. An old colored man appearing from behind the house took his way across the lawn in quest of the colts. The dog, with his..interest in life reawakened, bounded'off the steps prepared to lend valuable assistance, but was diverted, from this;laudable object by the approach of "two gentlemen who must be welcomed riotously. Pocahontas, rising, advanced out of the shadow to meet them—Jim Byrd and a tall, broad shouldered man, with a great silky red beard w her brother-in-law, Mr. Royall Garnett.

CHAPTER IV.

''Oh, Jim, dear!" spoke the girl

After a joyous exchange of greeting With her brother-in-law, of whom she was unusually fond, and a sweet, gracious welcome to her old playfellow, Pocahontas withdrew to tell her mother of their arrival, and to assure hersel. that everything was perfectly arranged for Jim's last meal among them. Through some strange deficiency m herself, she was unable to give him what most- desired, but. what bhe

could give mm she lavished royauy. She wore her prettiest dress in his honor, and adorned it with his favorite flowers, forgetful in her eagerness to please him that this might make things harder for him. She ordered all the dishes she knew he liked for tea, and spent a couple of hours in the hot kitchen that scorching morning preparing a cake that he always praised.

With eager haste she took from its glass doored cabinet the rare old Mason china and rifled the garden of roses to fill the quaint century old punch bowl for the center of the table. All things possible should be done to make Jim feel himself that night the honored guest, the person of most importance in their world. It was an heirloom—the Mason china—quaint and curious, and most highly prized. Thero was a superstition—how originated none knew— that the breakage of a piece, whether by design or accident, foreboded misfortune to the house of Mason. Very carefully it was always kept, being only used on rare occasions when special honor was intended. During the civil war it had lain securely hidden in a heavy box under the brick pavement of one of the cellar rooms, thereby escaping dire vicissitudes. Many pieces had been broken, said to have been followed in every case by calamities harder to endure than the loss of precious porcelain, but much of it still remained. In design it was unique, in execution wonderful, and its history was romantic.

In the olden time a rich and fanciful Mason had visited the colonies with one of the exped&ions sent out by the Virginia company, of London. He was an artist of no mean repute, and during his stay in the new world had made sketches of the strangely beautiful scenery, and studies from the wild, picturesque life which captivated his imagination.

After his return to England he perfected these drawings from memory, and some years later crossed over to France and had them transferred to china at fabulous cost. The result was very beautiful, for each piece showed small bufrexquisite portrayals of life and scenery in the New World. The scenes were varied and depicted in soft, glowing colors, and with a finish that made each a gem.

On one cup a hunter followed the chase through the silent forest; another showed a dusky maiden dreaming beside a waterfall; a third, a group of deer resting in a sunny valley; a fourth, a circle of braves around a council fire.

When in after years the grandson of the artist had married a bride with Indian blood in her veins the punch bowl had been added as a special compliment to the lady, and the china had been sent a wedding gift from the Masons of England to.the Masons of Virginia. The bowl was very graceful and contained on side a lovely representation of the landing at Jamestown, with the tranquil, smiling river, the vessel in the offing and the group of friendly red men on the shore. On the other was, of coarse, depicted the rescue of Captain John Smith by the Indian girl. The bowl was finished at top and bottom with wreaths of Virginia creepers, forest leaves and blossoms.

To bring out this precious heirloom in honor of a guest was making him of consequence indeed. Jim knew all about it, and when he caught sight of the prefriy tea table he understood the girl's intention and shot a quick, grateful glance across to her from his brown eyes. A whimsical memory of a superb (.real-fast he had once seen served to a man , about to be hanged obtruded itself, but he banished it loyally. As he took the cup with the dreaming maiden on it from Mrs. Mason's hand, he said gratefully:

"How good of you to have out the beautiful old china in my honor. When I was a boy, I always imagined that coffee from, these cup 3 tasted differenthad a woodsy, adventurous flavor. I think so still."

It was a merry meal, despite the shadow in the. background, for the gentlemen taking their cue from Pocahontas vied with each other in talking nonsense, and depicting ridiculous phases of camp life in the tropics, with Jim always for the hero of the scene. And Jim, shaking off the dismal emotions peculiar to farewell visits, responded gallantly, defending himself from each sportive attack and illumining his exile with such rays of promise as occurred to him. He knew these old friends were sorry to lose him, and trying to lessen the wrench of parting; and being a quiet, self controlled man—more given to action than speech, and with a deep abhorrence of scenes, he appreciated their efforts. After tea, Berkeley and Royall lit their pipes and strolled out toward the stables, leaving Jim and Pocahontas alone together on the porch. The girl leaned back in her chair silently, not trying to make conversation any more, and Jim sat on the step 3at her feet, letting his eyes follow wistfully the slope of the lawn and the, flow of the river. Presently, without turning his head, he asked her to walk-with him down to the old willows by the riverside, for a farewell look on the. scene so dear to him, and Pocahontas rose instantly and slipped her hand within his proffered arm. Down by the river, where the lawn bent softly to the wooing of the water, stood two ancient willows of unusual size; they v/ere gnarled with age, but vigorous and long limbed. The story ran that once a ; Pocahontas Mason, the lady of the manor here, had lovers twain—twin brothers who being also Masons were her distant cousins. One she loved and one she did not, but both loved her, and being passionate men both swore that ■ they would have her, come what might, and cause any man that came between most bloodily to rue it Between the brothers there arose quarrels and ill feeling, which afflicted the lady, who was a good woman and averse to breaking the peace of families. That brothers-twin brothers-should be scowling venomously at each other because of her appeared a grievous thing, and she set herself to mend it By marrying the man she loved she could end the affair at once, but his brother would never forgive him, and before love had maddened them the men had' been friends as well as brothers She gauged their characters thoughtfully, and hit upon a plan which, at tho expense of some self sacrifice, would arrange the matter peacefully. Bidding both lovers attend her one day, she brougM them to this spot, and cuttine two willow wands of exactly the same length and thickness she stuck them deeply into the moist soil and announced her decision. Theywonldwai three years, she said, and at the end of that-timetheman Whoso tre«>^ad. grown the'stroneest -should come and dawn hi_

answer. She would attend to both willows herself, giving to each the same care, and treating them with equal fairness. Then she made the men shake hands in amity once more and swear to abide by her decision.

The story further tells that both willows flourished finely, but that in the last year the true lover's tree outstripped its mate, as was right and proper. As the lady had anticipated, when the term of probation expired only one of the twins appeared to claim an answer to his suit. And in the pocket of the constant man, when he kissed his own true love, lay a letter from across the seas, full of brotherly affection and congratulation.

This little story was a favorite with Pocahontas, and she was fond of relating how her great-great-grandmother, by a little wit and generous self sacrifice, averted a feud between brothers and kept family peace unbroken.

The trees were always called "The Lovers," and under their sweeping branches the young people were fond of gathering on moonlit summer evenings.

Pocahontas seated herself under the larger tree on the dry, warm grass, and Jim leaned against the rugged trunk, silently drinking in, with his eyes, the still beauty of the night—the silvery sheen of the water, the pure bend of the sky, the slope,of the lawn and the gray tranquillity of the old house in the background. And as he gazed there awoke in his breast, adding to its pain, that weary yearning which men call homesickness.

With a ■ shuddering sigh and a movement of the strong shoulders as though some burden were settling down upon them, Jim dropped himself to the ground beside his companion and suffered her gently to possess herself of his tobacco pouch and pipe. The girl felt that the peacefulness of the scene jarred upon his mood, and set herself to soothe him into harmony with himself and nature. Jim watched the white fingers deftly fill the bowl and strike the match for him; then he took it from her hand and breathed softly through the curved stem until the fire circled brightly round and the tobacco all was burning. He leaned back on his elbow and sent the smoke out in long, quiet wreaths, and Pocahontas. with her hands folded together in her lap, watched it rise and vanish dreamily!

"I wonder," she murmured presently, "if the nights out there—in Mexico, I mean—can be more beautiful than this, I have read descriptions and dreamed dreams, but I can't imagine anything more perfect than that stretch of water shimmering in the moonlight and the dark outline of the trees yonder against the sky."

"It's more than beautiful; it's home," Jim's voice shook a little, "Do you know, Princess, that when ever the memory of homo comes to me out yonder in the tropics it will bo just- this picture I shall always see. The'river, the lights and shadows on the lawn, the old gray house, and you, with the Sowers on your breast, and the moonlight on your dear face. Don't be afraid, or move away: Pm not.going to make love to you—all that-ds over; but your face must always be to me the fairest and sweetest on earth." He paused a moment, and then, added, looking steadily away from her: "I want to tell you— this last time I may over have an opportunity of speaking to you alone— that you are never to blamo yourself for what has coino and gone. It's been no fault of yours. You could no mo ■ g help my loving you than I could help it myself, or than you,could make yourself love me in return."

"Oh, Jim, dear!" spoke the girl quick ly and-penitently, "I do love you. Ido indeed."

"I know,it,Princess, in exactly the same way you love Roy Garnett, and immeasurably less than you love Berkeley. That isn't what I wanted, dear. I'm a dull fellow, slow at understanding things, and I can't put my thoughts into graceful, fluent language; but . know what love is, and what I wanted you to. feel is very different. Don't be unhappy about it—or me. I'll worry through the pain in time:-or grow accustomed to it. It's tough, just at first, but I'll pull through somehow. It shall not spoil my life, either, although it must mar it. A man must be a pitiful fellow who lets himself go to the bad because the woman he loves won't havo him. God means every man to hold up his own weight in this world. I'd as soon knock a woman down as throw the blame of a wasted life 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 lovelier with such grand unselfishness, she wondered; ever give all, receive nothing.in return and still give ou. Why could not she love him? Why was her heart still and speechless and only her mind,;responsive. He was worthy ol any woman's love; why could not she give him hers? Ask the . question how she would, th _ answer was always the same. She did not love him; she coald 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 oui 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. J was the one always to care for yon 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 tc trouble you, only to remind you when things are-hard and rough and you need comfort that there's a heart iv 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, aud 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 1 have ever deserved. "

As they arose to return to the house the jasmine blossom fell from the girl.--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 Lanartii 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 tb« fiwmiace

stood swept and garnished, awaiting repossession. 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 bee. aud other wise things hummed and sang in. leafy places, the leaves on the magnolias were motionless and the air asleep.

A butterfly, passing to his siesta on the bosom of a rose, paused an instant on the window ledge to contemplate her foolishness; the flowers in the borders hung their head,.. Berkeley passed the open window, looking cool and fresh in summer clothing, and Pocahontas, catching sight of him, put her fingers to her lips and whistled sharply to attract his attention, which being done, she followed up the advantage with pantomimic gestures indicative of despair and need of swift assistance. Berkeley turned good naturedly, and came in to the rescue, but when he discovered the service required of him he regarded it with aversion, and showed a mean desire to retreat, which unworthiness was promptly detected by Pocahontas and as promptly frustrated.

"Do help me, Berkeley," she entreated. "They must all be put in place again before dinner, and it only wants a quarter to one now. I can't do it all before halfpast two, to save my life, unless you help

".Do help me, Berkeley," she entreated.

me. You know mother uiahkes a me-sy, littered room, and I've got your favorite pudding for dessert. Oh. dear! I'm tired to death already, and it's so warm!" The rising inflection of her voice conveyed an impression of heat intense enough to drive an engine. "What mado you do it?" inquired Berkeley in a tone calculated to make her sensible of folly.

"Mother asked me to dust the books some time ago, but I neglected it, and this morning when the sun shone on them I saw that their condition was disgraceful. I was so much disgusted with my untidiness that I dragged them all out on the impulse of the moment, and only realized how hot it was, and how I hated it, after tho deed was done. Come, Berke, do help me. I'm so tired."

Thus adjured, Berkeley laid aside his coat, for lifting is warm work with the sun at the meridian. The empty sb'.rt sleeve had a forlorn and piteous look as it hung crumpled and slightly twisted by his side. Berkeley caught it with his other hand and thrust the cufc in the waistband of hi. trousers. He was well used to his lo.es, and apparently indifferent to it, but the dangling of the empty sleeve worried him: the arm waa gone close up at the shoulder. Then the pair Cell to work briskly, dusting, arranging, rearranging and chatting pleasantly. Pocahontas plied the duster and her brother sorted the books and replaced them on the shelves. The sun shone in royalty, until Pocahontas served a writ of ejectment on his majesty by closing all the shutters, and the sun promptly elided it by peeping in between the bars. A little vagrant breeze stole in, full of idleness and mischief, aud meddled with the booksfluttering the leaves of "The Faery Queen," which lay on its back wide open, lifting up the pages and flirting them over roguishly as though bent on finding secrets. The little noise attracted the girl's attention, and she raised the book and wiped the covers with her duster. As she slanped it lightly with her hand to get out all the dust, a letter slipped from among the leaves and fell to the floor near Berkeley's feet.

"Where did this come from?" he inquired, as he picked it up. "Out of this book," she answered, holding up the volume in her hand. "It fell out while I was dusting; some cue must have left it in to mark a place. It must have been in the boob for years; sec- how soiled it is. Whose is it?"

There is something in the unexpected finding of a stray letter which stimulates curiosity, and Berkeley turned it in his hand to read the address. The envelope was soiled like t.'.e coat of a traveler, aud. the letter was crumpled as though a hand had closed over it roughly. The writing was distinct and clerkly. "Berkeley Mason, Esq., Wintergreen, , county, Virginia." Mr. Mason examined the blurred, indistinct postmark. "Point"—something, it seemed to be, and on the other side. "Washington," plain enough, and tho date, "May, I860." What letter had been forwarded

him from the seat of government in the spring of eighteen hundred and sixtyfive? °Theu memory unfolded itself like a map whose spring is loosened. Seating himself in any easy chair, he drew the letter from its envelope, unfolding it slowly against his knee, it was a half sheet, of ordinary commercial paper and the lines upon, it numbered, perhaps, a dozen. Mason winced at sight of the heading as though an old wound had been pressed. Ilis sister, leaning over the back of his chair, road with him; putting out a hand across his shoulder to help him straighten the page. It ran thus: Point Lookout, May —, 1865. To Berkeley Mason. Esq., Virginia: Sik-A Confederate soldier, now a prisoner of war at this place, giving his uaine as Temple Mason, is lying in the prison hospital at the point of death. He was too ill to bo sent, south with tho general transfer, and iv compliance with his urgent request I writo again—the third time-to iuform you of his condition, rle can't last much longer, unci in event of his dying without hearing from his friends he will be buried in the common cemetery connected with the prison, and his identity, in all probability, lost. This is what he appears to dread, and he entreats that you will come to him, in God's name, if you arc still alive. The utmost dispatch will bo necessary. Respectfully, PE-.ciV._ri Smith, B. G., U. S. A. Comdt, U. S. P., Point Lookout. Mason returned the letter to its envelope and leaned back in his chair thinking, It was one of the many messages of sorrow that had winded their wav

through the country m tbe avccJcs following' the close of the wai?; one of the murmurs of pain that had svrelled the funeral dirge vibrating through the land.

Pocahontas came and seated herself on her brother's knee, gazing at him with wide gray eyes filled with inquiry. "When did this comoV I never saw it before,'' she questioned gravely.

Then with troubled brow, and voice that grew husky at, times, he went over for her the .ad story of the last months of the last year of that unhappy and fateful struggle. In the autumn of sixty-four their brother Temple, a lad of seventeen, had been taken prisoner, with others of his troop, whilo making a reconnoisance, and they had been unable to discover either his condition or place of incarceration. Mason himself had been at home on sick leave, weak and worn with the loss of his arm aud a saber cut across his head. All through the winter and spring, while calamity followed calamity with stunning rapidity, the wearing anxiety about Temple continued, made more intolerable by the contradictory reports of his fate brought by passing soldiers. Finally, this letter had arrived and converted a dread fear into a worse certainty.

It had been handed to Roy Garnett by a Federal officer at Richmond, and Roy had ridden straight down with it all those weary miles, feeling curiously certain that it contained news of Temple, and sharing their anxiety to the full. Soy had been stanch aud helpful in their trouble, aiding in the hurried preparations for the journey, and accompanying the wounded man and the pale, resolute mother on their desperate mission. Then came the hideous journey, the arrival at the prison, the fearful questioning, the relief akin to pain of the reply; the interview with the bluff, kindly commandant, who took their hands 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 homecoming. It was a pitiful story, common enough both north and south, but none the less nitifnl for its commonness.

With her head bowed 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," sue 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 F.oy hadn't happened to bo in Richmond, it's a question whether I should have received this one. It was kindly done, as you say, and tliis 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 o_ Roy's efforts. We owe him a debt of gratitude I'd fain repay. God bless him!" "Amen!" echoed Pocahontas softly. (To be Continued on Wednesday next.)