After awhile they turned into an unfrequented walk, and Blanche seized her opportunity.  She made Jim sit down on a bench under an old elm tree and seated herself beside him.  Then, insensibly and deftly, she turned the talk to Virginia.  She spoke of his old home, and praised its beauty, and told him how a love for it had grown up in her heart, although she was a stranger; she spoke of the cordial, friendly people, and of the kindness they had extended to her family; of Warner, his illness, death, and burial beside poor Temple Mason.  Then she glided on to Pocahontas, and spoke of her friend with enthusiasm, almost with reverence; then, seeing that his interest was aroused, she told him as simply and concisely as she could the story of her cousin’s love for Pocahontas, and the position in which the affair now stood.

“I know that she loves him,” Blanche said quietly, “loves him as he loves her, and that she is breaking her own heart, as well as his, by this hesitation.  It seems to me so wrong.  What is a scruple compared to the happiness of a life?  The child is dead, all connection between Nesbit and that heartless woman is severed forever.  She is no more to him than she is to you, or to Berkeley.  I think that Pocahontas would give way, but for Berkeley, for the influences of her old life.  I think some one ought to speak to Berkeley, to make him see how wrong he is, how hard, how almost cruel.  I have spoken, but I’m of Nesbit’s blood, on Nesbit’s side, and my words haven’t the weight that words would have coming from a person who is outside of it all, and yet who belongs to them.  If YOU would speak, Mr. Byrd, I think it would do good.  Berkeley would listen to you, and would come to look at this matter in its true light.  Pocahontas is breaking her heart, and Nesbit’s heart, and she ought not to be let do it.”  There were tears in Blanche’s eyes and in her voice as she spoke, and she laid one small hand on Jim’s arm appealingly.

Jim never moved; he sat like a man carved out of stone and listened.  He knew that Pocahontas had never loved him, as he had wanted her to love him; but the knowledge that her love was given to another man, was bitter.  He said no word, only listened with a jealous hatred of the man, who had supplanted him, growing in his breast.

Blanche looked at him with tearful eyes and quivering lips; his gaze was on the ground; his face wore, to her, an absent, almost apathetic look.  She was disappointed.  She had expected, she did not know exactly what, but certainly more sympathy, more response.  She thought that his heart must be less noble than his face, and she regretted having given him her confidence and solicited his aid.  When they got back to the avenue, she released him from further attendance a trifle coldly.  She would make her calls alone, she said, it might be irksome to him, probably he had other engagements.  He had been very good to sacrifice so much of his time to her; she would not detain him longer.