In the dining-room at Lanarth stood Pocahontas, an expression of comical dismay upon her face, a pile of dusty volumes on the floor at her feet.  The bookcase in the recess by the fireplace, with yawning doors and empty shelves, stood swept and garnished, awaiting re-possession.  In a frenzy of untimely cleanliness, she had torn all the books from the repose of years, and now that the deed was beyond recall, she was a prey to disgust, and given over to repentance.  The morning promised to be sultry, and the pile was very big; outside bugs and bees and other wise things hummed and sang in leafy places; the leaves on the magnolias were motionless, and the air asleep.  A butterfly, passing to his siesta on the bosom of a rose, paused an instant on the window ledge to contemplate her foolishness; the flowers in the borders hung their heads.  Berkeley passed the open window, looking cool and fresh in summer clothing, and Pocahontas, catching sight of him, put her fingers to her lips and whistled sharply to attract his attention, which being done, she followed up the advantage with pantomimic gestures, indicative of despair, and need of swift assistance.  Berkeley turned good-naturedly, and came in to the rescue, but when he discovered the service required of him, he regarded it with aversion, and showed a mean desire to retreat, which unworthiness was promptly detected by Pocahontas, and as promptly frustrated.

“Do help me, Berkeley,” she entreated.  “They must all be put in place again before dinner, and it only wants a quarter to one now.  I can’t do it all before half-past two, to save my life, unless you help me.  You know, mother dislikes a messy, littered room, and I’ve got your favorite pudding for dessert.  Oh, dear!  I’m tired to death already, and it’s so warm!” The rising inflection of her voice conveyed an impression of heat intense enough to drive an engine.

“What made you do it?” inquired Berkeley, in a tone calculated to make her sensible of folly.

“Mother asked me to dust the books sometime ago, but I neglected it, and this morning when the sun shone on them I saw that their condition was disgraceful.  I was so much disgusted with my untidiness, that I dragged them all out on the impulse of the moment, and only realized how hot it was, and how I hated it, after the deed was done.  Come, Berke, do help me.  I’m so tired.”

Thus adjured, Berkeley laid aside his coat, for lifting is warm work with the sun at the meridian.  The empty shirt sleeve had a forlorn and piteous look as it hung crumpled and slightly twisted by his side.  Berkeley caught it with his other hand and thrust the cuff in the waistband of his trowsers.  He was well used to his loss, and apparently indifferent to it, but the dangling of the empty sleeve worried him; the arm was gone close up at the shoulder.