struggle.
Thorne turned; his eyes were upon her; he advanced slowly.

Jim came straight to where she stood and took her hands in his; his
face was pale and drawn, as the face of a man who has passed through
the white heat of suffering. His hands were cold, and trembled a
little as they closed on hers; he tried to speak, but his lips were dry
and his voice inaudible.

"Sweetheart," he said at length, using the tender old word
unconsciously, and speaking brokenly, "I asked you once to let the
thought of me come--sometimes--when life should be hard upon you; to
let the influence, of my love stir sometimes in your memory. That
would be wrong now--worse; it would be selfish and unmanly. A man has
no right to cast his shadow on a woman's life when it has passed into
the keeping of another man." His voice grew husky, his lips quivered,
but he went bravely on. "I know your story--Berkeley has told me--the
young lady has spoken--I take back the request. I'd rather all thought
of me should be banished from you in this world and in the next, than
that it should make a breach, even in the outworks of your life, to let
in trouble to you."

He paused abruptly; through the strong frame ran a shudder, like the
recoil from pain; but the man's will was firm, his purpose steadfast.
All of her life he had cared for her, been tender with her; shielding
her from trouble, or grief, or blame, as far as in him lay, and, though
his heart should break, he would not fail her now. Slowly he spoke
again.

"Child," he said, gently, "if I've ever said a word that hurts you,
forget it, put it from you. I did not understand then; I do _now_--and
I'd give my right hand to recall it. What you do has always been right
in my eyes--_must_ always be right. I can never----" his voice failed
him; something rose in his throat and choked utterance; he bent his
head until his lips touched the hands he held, and then turned quietly
away.

Pocahontas did not move; she scarcely breathed. The spell of Jim's
magnanimity held her, made her realize, at last, the grandeur, the
immensity of love. Her soul was awed. Thought followed thought
through her brain; love in its sublimity was bared to her gaze; self
fell away--burned as dross in the fire of suffering; to guide herself
was not enough; she must aid and comfort others. If hands were
outstretched in anguish, she must clasp them; if a heart cried to her
in desolation, she had no right to turn aside