The devil is never subtler than when he assumes the garb of priest.

And if he did not speak—­more, if he should solidify, by every means in his power, this barrier of prejudice into a wall of principle, which should separate these two forever, what might not be the result?  Jim’s strong frame shook like a leaf.  His abnormally-excited imagination leaped forward and constructed possibilities that thrilled him.  The spot on his hand that her lips had touched, burned.

A little girl came down the walk, trundling a hoop; it struck against Jim’s foot and fell over.  The helpful instinct that was in him made him stoop and lift it for her; the child, a tiny thing, pushed back her curls and looked up at him with grave, wide-open eyes; suddenly her face dimpled; a smile like sunshine broke over it, and she raised her sweet lips to his, to kiss her thanks.

What had happened?  A child’s look, a child’s kiss; it was a strange thing.  He raised his head and glanced around, passing his hand over his brow like a man aroused from a delirium of dreams.  Forces foreign to his nature had been at work.  He could not understand it—­or himself.

Words came back to him out of his past—­his own words—­“a man must hold up his own weight,” and other words, “a man must help with his strength a woman’s weakness.”  He thought of his love with pity, with remorse.  He had never failed her, never put himself first, till now.  What was this thing he had thought of doing?

Jim stood erect and pulled himself together, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders as a man does who is about to face an issue fairly.

CHAPTER XXV.

Pocahontas was alone.  The party had dispersed, one here, one there, about their own concerns, filled with their own interests.  They had invited her to accompany them, even urged it; but she would not; she was tired, she said, and would rest; but there was no rest for her.

The crisis of her life had come, and she was trying to face it.  Heretofore the fight had been unequal; the past had had the advantage of sun and wind and field, the old influences had been potent because they were present, had never been broken.  Now she was in a measure removed from them; the forces faced each other on neutral ground, the final conflict was at hand.

What should she do?  How should she decide?  She was torn and swayed by the conflict of emotions within her; the old fight was renewed with added fierceness.  Her heart yearned over Thorne, her love rose up and upbraided her for hardness.  He was so changed, he had suffered so, his hair was growing gray, hard lines were deepening about his mouth, and to his eyes had come an expression that wrung her heart—­a cynical hopelessness, a sullen gloom.  Was this her work?  Was she shutting out hope from a life, thus making a screen of a scruple to keep sunlight from a soul?