"Step over there, indeed!" laughed Pocahontas. "How insinuatingly you put it. Aunt Vi'let's cabin is way over at Shirley; half a mile beyond Jim Byrd's line fence."
"General Smith's line fence, you mean. I wish you'd go, Princess. There's money in the letter, and I don't want to send it by the negroes. I promised Jim we'd look after the old woman for them. The girls want her to come to Richmond, but she won't consent to quit the old place. She hasn't any children of her own, you know."
Pocahontas extended her hand for the letter. "She ought to go to
Richmond and live with Belle or Nina," she said, slipping it into her
pocket. "She'd die of homesickness way out in California with Susie.
I wonder whether the new people will let her stay at Shirley?"
"Oh, yes; Jim made every arrangement when he found she wouldn't consent to move. He had an understanding with General Smith about the corner of land her cabin stands on; reserved it, or leased it, or something. It's all right."
Always kind, always considerate, thought the girl, wistfully, even amid the pain and hurry of departure—the sundering of old ties, finding time to care for the comfort of his old nurse. Good, faithful Jim.
"Have the new people come?" she called after her brother, as he disappeared within the house.
"I don't know. I rather think they have," he answered. "I noticed smoke rising from the kitchen chimney this morning. Ask Aunt Rachel—the negroes are sure to know."
Pausing a moment at the kitchen door to request the servants to inform her mother that she had walked over to Shirley to read a letter to old Aunt Vi'let, and would be home in an hour or so, Pocahontas set out on her expedition, never noticing that little Sawney, with a muttered "Me d'wine too," was resolutely following her. The way led along a pleasant country road, as level as a table, which ran, with scarcely a bend, or turning, straight from the Masons' back gate over to the ancient home of the Byrd family at Shirley. Overhead the interlacing branches of oak and magnolia trees made a gorgeous canopy of glossy green and russet, and the sunshine filtering through the leaves embroidered the old road with an intricate pattern of light and shadow. Now and then a holly tree, or bush, bright with berries, made a lovely dash of color, and glowed all over with suggestions of Christmas and rejoicing.
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.