Unconsciously she was assuming the responsibility which he had thrust upon her—­was fitting the burden to her shoulders.  She did not analyze the position; did not see that he had been ruthless; that he had no right to use such a weapon against her.  She only saw that he suffered, that he needed her, that she loved him.

What did it matter about herself?  Her scruple might die—­and if it should not, she was strong enough to hold it down, to keep her foot on its breast.  Was her love so weak that it should shrink from pain?

If only the scruple would die!  If only the old influences would lose their hold; if only she could see this thing as the world saw it.  Was she made different from others, that her life should be molded on other lines than their lives?  God, above! Why should she suffer, and make Thorne suffer?

Her mother, Berkeley, the dead brother whom she had exalted into a hero, the memory of the brave men and noble women from whom she had sprung, the old traditions, the old associations rose, in her excited fancy, and arrayed themselves on one side.  Against them in serried ranks came compassion, all the impulses of true womanhood toward self-sacrifice and love.

The loneliness of the crowded hotel oppressed her; the consciousness of the life that environed but did not touch her, gave birth to a yearning to get away from it all—­out into the sunshine and the sweet air, and the warmth and comfort of nature.  If she could get away into some still, leafy place, she could think.

Hastily arraying herself, she left her chamber and descended the broad stairway.  She passed through the hall, and out into the sunshine of the busy street; and Jim, who, unseen by her, was standing in the clerk’s office, turned and looked after her.  A troubled expression, like the shadow of a cloud, passed over his face, and he followed her silently.

In the street it was better.  There were people, little children, a sense of life, a sense of humanity, and over all, around all, the warm sunlight.  Comfort and help abounded.  A woman, weighed down with a heavy burden, paused, bewildered, in the middle of a crossing—­a man helped her; a child stood crying on a doorstep—­a larger child soothed it; an ownerless dog looked pitifully into a woman’s face—­she stooped and stroked its head with her ungloved hand.  The longing for the isolation of nature slowly gave place to a recognition of the community of nature.

A quiet street branched off from the crowded thoroughfare.  Pocahontas turned into it and walked on.  The roar of traffic deadened as she left it further and further behind; the passers became fewer.  It was the forenoon and the people were at work; the houses rose tall on either hand; the street was still and almost deserted.

A man passed with a barrow of flowers—­roses, geraniums, jasmin; their breath made the air fragrant.  In a stately old church near by some one was playing; a solemn, measured movement.  Pocahontas turned aside and entered.  The place was still and hushed; the light dim and beautiful with color; on the altar, tapers burned before the mother and child; everywhere there was a faint odor of incense.