Jim went back to the path and sat down again, not noticing her change of manner, and only conscious of the relief of being free from the necessity of talking commonplace, of being left to think this matter out alone.  He thought vaguely that she was a kind, considerate woman and then she passed out of his mind.

The first feeling with which he grappled was wonder; a strange thing had happened.  A few short months ago these people had been unknown to him; were, as far as his life had been concerned, non-existent.  And now!  Land, home, friends, love, all things that had been his, were theirs!  His place knew him no more; these strangers filled it.  It was a strange thing, a cruel thing.

Pocahontas had been glad to see him again, but in her pleasure there had been preoccupation; he had felt it; it was explained now.  He knew that she had never loved him, but the possibility of her loving another man had never come home to him before.  He tried to steady himself and realize it; it ate into his heart like corroding acid.  Perhaps it was not true; there might be some mistake; then his heart told him that it was true; that there was no mistake.  She loved this man, this stranger, of whose existence she had been ignorant that evening when she had said farewell to him under the old willows beside the river.  She had been tender and pitiful then; she had laid her soft lips against his hand, had given him a flower from her breast.  He moved his hand, and, with the fingers of the other hand, touched the spot which her lips had pressed; the flower, faded and scentless, lay, folded with a girlish note or two she had written him, in the inside pocket of his vest.

The shadows shifted as the wind swayed the branches; the sound of women’s voices came from behind a clump of evergreens; they were raised in surprise or excitement, and sounded shrill and jarring.  In the distance a nurse pushed a basket-carriage carelessly; she was talking to a workman who slouched beside her, and the child was crying.  Two sparrows near at hand, quarreled and fought over a bit of string.

His anger burned against Thorne.  He could see no good in his rival; no tragedy, no pathos, in the situation.  Had his life gone wrong?—­Doubtless the fault had been his.  Did he suffer?  Jim felt a brute joy in the knowledge of his pain.

What was that the young lady had said?  Thorne had been divorced—­the woman who had been his wife lived—­there were prejudices; he knew them all; a barrier existed; his heart leaped.  Here was hope, here was vengeance.

A cloud passed over the sun, eclipsing its brightness; a chill was on the face of nature; a dead twig, broken by the squirrel in his gambols, fell at his feet.

He had been asked to speak, to exert his influence, to smooth the path for his rival.  He would not speak; why should he speak?  Was it any business of his?  Nay; was it not rather his duty to be silent, or to throw such influence as he possessed into the other scale?  Should he aid to bring about a thing which he had been taught to regard with aversion?  Was it not his duty as a man, as a Christian, to increase the prejudice, to build higher the barrier?  Was it not better that Thorne should suffer, that Pocahontas should suffer, as he himself was suffering, than that wrong should be done?