She cheered Thorne wonderfully, for she seemed to bring Virginia and the life of the last few months nearer to him—­the peaceful life in which new hopes had budded, in which he had met, and known, and loved Pocahontas.  Norma did him good, raised his spirits, and made the future look bright and cheerful; but not in the way she hoped and intended.  She had come North with the hope of furthering her own plans, of making herself necessary and agreeable, of keeping the old days fresh in his memory.  And she was necessary to him, as a trusted comrade who had never failed him; a clever adviser in whose judgment he had confidence; a charming friend who was fond of him, and who had, but now, come from the enchanted land where his love dwelt.  Of her plans he knew nothing, suspected nothing; and the days she brought fresh to his thoughts were days in which she had no part.

In a little while, he went West, and there was a period of uneventful waiting; after which Norma received a Western paper containing a short and unobtrusive notice of the granting of a divorce to Nesbit Thorne from Ethel, his wife.

She bore it away to her room and gloated over it greedily.  Then she took her pen and ran it around the notice, marking it heavily; this done, she folded, sealed and directed it in a clear, bold hand—­General Percival Smith,—­Wintergreen Co., Virginia.  It would save elaborate explanations.

CHAPTER XVI.

Spring opened very late that year in Virginia—­slowly and regretfully, as though forced into doing the world a favor against its will, and determined to be as grudging and disagreeable over it as possible.  The weather was cold, wet, and unwholesome—­sulking and storming alternately, and there was much sickness in the Lanarth and Shirley neighborhood.  The Christmas had been a green one—­only one small spurt of snow on Christmas eve, which vanished with the morning.  The negroes were full of gloomy prognostications in consequence, and shook their heads, and cast abroad, with unction, all sorts of grewsome prophecies anent the fattening of the church-yard.

All through the winter, Mrs. Mason had been ailing, and about the beginning of March she succumbed to climatic influences, backed by hereditary tendency, and took to her bed with a severe attack of inflammatory rheumatism.  Pocahontas had her hands full with household care and nursing, and perhaps it was as well, for it drove self into the background of her mind, for a part of the time at least, and filled with anxiety the empty days.  Grace, living five miles away and loaded down with family cares and duties of her own, could be of little practical assistance.