“Break the spell,” she entreated, “and unborn generations will bless you.  We Virginians will keep on in one groove until the crack of doom unless we are jerked out of it by the nape of the neck.  Your heart ought to yearn over the child—­mine does.  It’s a wicked sin to call a pretty baby by such a monstrous name.”

Grace trampled on the protest:  “Not name her Pocahontas?  Why, of course I shall!  If the name were twice as long and three times as ugly my baby should bear it.  I wonder you should object when you know that every Pocahontas in the family has invariably turned out an exceptionally fine woman.  All have been noble, truthful, honorable; quick to see the right and unswerving in pursuit of it.  I shall call my baby by that name, and no other.”

Pocahontas opened her eyes.  “Why, Grace,” she said, “you talk as if the name were a talisman; as if virtues were transmitted with it.  Isn’t that silly?”

“Not at all,” responded Grace promptly; “unless we cease to be ourselves after death, we must still take interest in the things of this world, in our families and descendants.  We may not be able actually to transmit our virtues to them, but surely by guardian influence we can help them imitate ancestral good qualities.  Guardian angels of our own blood are a great deal nearer than outside angels, and I believe the dear Lord appoints them whenever he can; and if so, why shouldn’t the good women who are in heaven take interest in my baby who will bear their name?  It is their name still, and it must hurt them to see it soiled; of course they must take interest.  Were I an angel, the child on earth who bore my name should be my special charge.”

“Then, according to your showing, Grace, six good women, now holy angels, have baby and me in constant keeping for love of our ugly name.  The idea is fanciful, and I don’t consider it orthodox:  but it’s pretty, and I like it.  Miss Pocahontas the ninth, you and I must walk with circumspection, if not to grieve the good ladies up above who are kind enough to take such interest in us.”

Pocahontas mocked at Grace’s idea, but it pleased her all the same, and unconsciously it influenced her more than she knew.  She loved the legends of her house, delighted in the fact of descent from brave men and true women.  The past held her more than is common with the young people of the present day, and she sought out and treasured all the records of the six women who had borne her name, from the swarthy Indian princess down to the gentle gray-haired lady who held the place of honor at the Lanarth breakfast table.

“Princess,” said Mrs. Mason, as she distributed the sugar and cream, “I wish you’d ring the bell.  Rachel must have breakfast ready by this time, and I hear Berkeley’s step outside.”