“Pocahontas likes not—she hates—she will kill!” exclaimed the Indian maid, her voice rising in frenzy at every breath.
“Mind her not, Anne, it is but the jealousy of a child.
“My little one, your father is yours, he belongs to you,” he soothingly said, drawing the trembling Pocahontas into his encircling arms and feeling her beating heart fluttering like a caged bird.
With much coaxing she consented to smile upon Mrs. Forrest, but any advance upon the part of Anne was met by a fierce scowl. Poor Indian maid! Her loving heart could not bear the pain of seeing her hero give even a fleeting caress to another.
CHAPTER XVIII
The sultry August sun was slowly dying in the west as Anne Burras, standing before her small mirror, gave the finishing touches to her toilet. When the stars came out she would slip down to the ill-fated gold stream to meet Wingfield.
Her mistress came in and noted the preparations, glancing at the chain of gold around her neck.
“Where got you that chain, Anne?”
“It was given me by Mistress Hardcastle when she stayed at your house last winter.”