The trees were always called “The Lovers,” and under their sweeping branches the young people were fond of gathering on moonlit summer evenings.

Pocahontas seated herself under the larger tree on the dry, warm grass, and Jim leaned against the rugged trunk, silently drinking in, with his eyes, the still beauty of the night—­the silvery sheen of the water, the pure bend of the sky, the slope of the lawn, and the gray tranquillity of the old house in the background.  And as he gazed, there awoke in his breast, adding to its pain, that weary yearning which men call home-sickness.

With a shuddering sigh and a movement of the strong shoulders as though some burden were settling down upon them, Jim dropped himself to the ground beside his companion, and suffered her gently to possess herself of his tobacco pouch and pipe.  The girl felt that the peacefulness of the scene jarred upon his mood, and set herself to soothe him into harmony with himself and nature.  Jim watched the white fingers deftly fill the bowl, and strike the match for him; then he took it from her hand and breathed softly through the curved stem until the fire circled brightly round, and the tobacco all was burning.  He leaned back on his elbow and sent the smoke out in long quiet wreaths, and Pocahontas, with her hands folded together in her lap, watched it rise and vanish dreamily.

“I wonder,” she murmured presently, “if the nights out there—­in Mexico, I mean—­can be more beautiful than this.  I have read descriptions, and dreamed dreams, but I can’t imagine any thing more perfect than that stretch of water shimmering in the moonlight, and the dark outline of the trees yonder against the sky.”

“It’s more than beautiful; it’s home.”  Jim’s voice shook a little.  “Do you know, Princess, that whenever the memory of home comes to me out yonder in the tropics, it will be just this picture, I shall always see.  The river, the lights and shadows on the lawn, the old gray house, and you, with the flowers on your breast, and the moonlight on your dear face.  Don’t be afraid, or move away; I’m not going to make love to you—­all that is over; but your face must always be to me the fairest and sweetest on earth.”  He paused a moment, and then added, looking steadily away from her; “I want to tell you—­this last time I may ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone—­that you are never to blame yourself for what has come and gone.  It’s been no fault of yours.  You could no more help my loving you than I could help it myself; or than you could make yourself love me in return.”

“Oh, Jim, dear!” spoke the girl, quickly and penitently, “I do love you.  I do, indeed.”