“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.  Was she so pure, so clean, so righteous, that contact with another soul—­one that had known passions and sorrows of which she was, of which she must be, ignorant—­should soil her?  If so, her righteousness was a poor thing, her cleanness, that of the outside of the cup and platter, her purity, that of unquarried marble.

Thorne drew nearer; she raised her head; their eyes met; he extended his hands with a gesture not to be denied.

With a smile of indescribable graciousness, a tenderness, a royalty of giving, she made a movement forward and laid her hands in his.

CHAPTER XXVI.