Pocahontas sauntered slowly, enjoying the beauty of the morning, and thinking happy thoughts of the past, in which were mingled memories of the three Byrd girls, who had been her playmates, and of Jim.  It was just beside that holly that Nina Byrd, an enterprising child, had fallen over the fence into a mud puddle, while in pursuit of a little striped ground squirrel, and soiled her hands and dress, and afterward shook her and Susie because they laughed at her.  Nina was always passionate.  And over in that meadow, she had once been forced to take refuge in a tree from the hostile demonstrations of an unruly heifer whose calf she had annoyed with overtures of friendship.  She had sat among the branches, forlorn and frightened, for more than an hour, feeling that each moment was a month, and that such a thing as forgetfulness was impossible to the bovine mind, when Jim, cantering home from school over in the village, had spied her out and rescued her.

Passing from retrospect to anticipation, the girl’s mind wandered to the new arrivals, and idle speculations about them filled it.  Naturally, her thoughts were colored by her wishes, and she pleased herself with fancying them agreeable people, refined and cultured, with whom association would be pleasant.  Her fancy was untrammeled, for her facts were few, and the name afforded no clew whatever.  People named “Smith” might be any thing—­or nothing, regarded socially.  The name was non-committal, but it suggested possibilities, and its range was infinite.  Wits, felons, clergymen, adventurers, millionaires and spendthrifts, all had answered to the unobtrusive cognomen.  It was plain and commonplace, but as baffling as a disguise.  With Talbot, Meredith, or Percival, the case is different, such nomenclature presupposes gentility.  As the name “Percival” crossed the girl’s mind in her whimsical musings, her thoughts seized upon it and fitted it instantly to the name which had preceded it, Percival—­and Smith!  Percival Smith!  That was the name signed to the letter they had re-discovered after its sleep of years—­the letter telling them of Temple.  This newcomer was, or had been, an army officer—­a general.  Suppose it should be the same person?  Nay; it must be—­it was!  Her mind leaped to the delightful conclusion impetuously, and before she had proceeded ten yards further, Pocahontas was fully convinced of the correctness of her conclusion, and busy with plans for returning the kindness they had received.

Filled with pleasure in her thought, her steps quickened, as though her feet were trying to keep pace with her bright imaginings.  And so engrossed was she with castle-building, that it was only when she stopped to climb a fence separating the road from a field through which lay a short cut to Aunt Violet’s cabin, that she became aware of her small attendant.

“Why, Sawney, who told you to come?” she questioned, as she sprang to the ground on the other side.  The little fellow slowly and carefully mounted the fence, balancing his fat body on the top rail as he turned circumspectly in order to scramble down.  When the landing had been safely effected, he peered up at her with twinkling eyes, and announced, with the air of one imparting gratifying intelligence:  “Nobody.  I tum myse’f.  I dwine long-er you.”