"What is it?" he questioned, with tender solicitude.

"I have so often meant to tell you," she answered, her eyes not upon his, but fixed absently upon a distant object which yet was unseen, "but have not had the courage. It seems almost like stabbing a living thing to the heart to speak of it to you; and yet—and yet—"

"Tell me, dear heart. Is there anything with which you would not trust me?"

"It is only that I would not distress you. There is an old curse in the family; such a foolish thing, you will think, for nineteenth century people to believe in, and I don't—really I don't; and yet it makes my blood freeze in my veins sometimes when I remember it. It is the curse of Pocahontas, Olney. Have you heard what it is?"

"No."

"It descends to the dark girl child of each generation—the child that shows the trace of the Indian in her unfortunate veins. It is a curse put upon her love, that unhappiness, misery may follow the giving of her heart, and—Olney, what a fool I am to alarm you with this absurdity!"

He had started and grown a shade paler, then caught her hands in a grip that would have hurt her had she been more alive to physical emotions.

"Why do you listen to such things?" she continued, laughing half hysterically.

"It was so strange," he returned, huskily—"so strange that you should have mentioned it at this, of all times."

"Why?"