boy was in raptures over the old house mossed over with history and
tradition, which would be his future home. Noting the eagerness of his
interest, her heart gave a sudden bound, hope took her by the hand, and
she dreamed dreams. There might come a reaction and improvement. At
times the intuition of an invalid was the voice of nature, crying out
for that which she needed. Warner's longing for this change might be
the precursor of his cure. Who could read the future?




CHAPTER III.

Backward and forward, from pantry to sideboard, from sideboard to china
closet, flitted Pocahontas Mason setting the table for breakfast.
Deftly she laid out the pretty mats on the shining mahogany, arranged
the old-fashioned blue cups and saucers, and placed the plates and
napkins. She sang at her work in a low, clear voice, more sweet than
powerful, and all that her hands found to do was done rapidly and
skillfully, with firm, accustomed touches, and an absence of jar and
clatter. In the center of the table stood a corpulent Wedgwood
pitcher, filled with geraniums and roses, to which the girl's fingers
wandered lovingly from time to time, in the effort to coax each blossom
into the position in which it would make the bravest show. On one
corner, near the waiter, stood a housewifely little basket of keys,
through the handle of which was thrust a fresh handkerchief newly
shaken out.

When all the arrangements about the table had been completed,
Pocahontas turned her attention to the room, giving it those manifold