touches which, from a lady's fingers, can make even a plain apartment
look gracious and homelike. Times had changed with the Masons, and
many duties formerly delegated to servants now fell naturally to the
daughter of the house. Perhaps the change was an improvement: Berkeley
Mason, the young lady's brother, maintained that it was.

Having finished her work, Pocahontas crossed the room to one of the
tall, old-fashioned windows, and pushed open the half-shut blinds,
letting a flood of sunshine and morning freshness into the room. Under
the window stood an ottoman covered with drab cloth, on which the
fingers of some dead and gone Mason had embroidered a dingy wreath of
roses and pansies. Pocahontas knelt on it, resting her arms on the
lofty window-sill, and gazed out over the lawn, and enjoyed the dewy
buoyance of the air. The September sunshine touched with golden glory
the bronze abundance of her hair, which a joyous, rollicking breeze,
intoxicated with dew and the breath of roses, tangled and tumbled into
a myriad witcheries of curl and crinkle. The face, glorified by this
bright aureole, was pure and handsome, patrician in every line and
curve, from the noble forehead, with its delicate brown brows, to the
well-cut chin, which spoke eloquently of breadth of character and
strength of will. The eyes were gray, and in them lay the chief charm
of the face, for their outlook was as honest and fearless as that of a
child--true eyes they were, fit windows for a brave, true soul.

The house, neutral-tinted with years and respectability, stood well
back from the river, to whose brink the smooth, green lawn swept in
scarcely perceptible undulation. The river here was broad, almost
resembling an arm of the sea it was moving languidly to join. There
was no haste about it, and no fret of ever active current; as all large
bodies should, it moved slowly, and the eye rested gratefully on the