s and asked what had become of her objections to
Virginia; and Percival tormented her unceasingly, twitting her with her
former wails of lamentation. Blanche did not care. She took their
teasing in good part, and retorted with merry words and smiles and
blushes. She had made her journey to the unknown, and returned with
treasure.

Mrs. Smith, in her chamber, smiled softly, and thought on muslin and
lace and wedding favors.

CHAPTER XVII.

The weeks rolled by, and gradually Mrs. Mason grew convalescent. She
was still confined to her room, but the worst of the pain was over, and
she could lie on the sofa by the fireside and have Berkeley read aloud
to her in the evenings. Blanche, if she happened to be there, would
sit on a low chair beside the sofa, busy with some delicate bit of
fancy work, and later in the evening Berke would take her home.
Sometimes Pocahontas would bring her work and listen, or pretend to
listen, with the rest, but oftener she would go into the parlor and
play dreamily to herself for hours. She had taken up her music
industriously and practiced hard in her spare moments.

She had been playing a long time one evening in April, and had left the
piano for a low chair beside the open fire. She was tired. Although
spring had come, the evenings were chill and the room was large. Her
hands were cold and she spread them out to the blaze. The heavy
curtains billowed and sank and billowed again, as intrusive puffs of
wind crept officiously through the crevices of the old casements.
Blanche and Berkeley were with her mother, and they were reading "Lorna
Doone." She had read the book a week ago, and did not care to hear it
over.

The front door opened quietly--it was always on the latch--and
footsteps came along the hall; quick, eager footsteps, straight to the
parlor door; the knob turned. No need to turn her head, no need to
question of her heart whose step, whose hand that was, to guess whose
presence filled the room.

Thorne came across the room, and stood opposite, a great light of joy
in his eyes, his hands outstretched for hers. Benumbed with many
emotions, Pocahontas half-rose, an inarticulate murmur dying on her
lips. Thorne put her gently back into her chair, and drew one for
himself up to the hearth-rug near her; he was willing to keep silence
for a little space, to give her time to recover herself; he was
satisfied for the moment with the sense of her nearness, and his hea