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  THE CURSE OF
  POCAHONTAS

  By WENONA GILMAN

  HART SERIES NO. 102

  Copyright 1895, by George Munro's Sons
  Copyright, 1912 by The Arthur Westbrook Co.

  Published by
  THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY,
  Cleveland Ohio, U. S. A.




THE CURSE OF POCAHONTAS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.
  CHAPTER II.
  CHAPTER III.
  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.
  CHAPTER VI.
  CHAPTER VII.
  CHAPTER VIII.
  CHAPTER IX.
  CHAPTER X.
  CHAPTER XI.
  CHAPTER XII.
  CHAPTER XIII.
  CHAPTER XIV.
  CHAPTER XV.
  CHAPTER XVI.
  CHAPTER XVII.
  CHAPTER XVIII.
  CHAPTER XIX.
  CHAPTER XX.
  CHAPTER XXI.
  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHAPTER XXIII.
  CHAPTER XXIV.
  CHAPTER XXV.
  CHAPTER XXVI.
  CHAPTER XXVII.
  CHAPTER XXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXIX.
  CHAPTER XXX.
  CHAPTER XXXI.
  CHAPTER XXXII.
  CHAPTER XXXIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIV.
  CHAPTER XXXV.
  CHAPTER XXXVI.
  CHAPTER XXXVII.




CHAPTER I.


Mrs. de Barryos sat beside a window overlooking a dainty rose-garden,
the golden sunshine streaming over her, the balmly air lifting the soft
curls of dark hair that was artistically touched with gray. Her hands
were folded idly over a letter that lay in her lap--small hands that
looked as if they had never known the meaning of toil, they were pale
and thin, like the face of the woman to whom they belonged, for Mrs. de
Barryos was an invalid.

She had been pretty before her face acquired its present angles through
suffering; never beautiful, but pretty in a dainty, meaningless sort of
way; inoffensively pretty some people might have called her, for there
was no strength in it, nor character. Her eyes were innocent, wide-open
brown ones that were like those of an obedient child. Her chin was
decidedly weak, and about the mouth had grown with her age a sort of
querulous tremble, as if she felt that the world had used her unfairly,
and wanted all mankind to sympathize with and pet her because of it.

She was never known to miss an opportunity to tell people of all the
wretchedness that had been so bravely and uncomplainingly borne. She
had fancied for the past five years that death was imminent, that its
shadows lay across her threshold, and yet she was apparently as far
from it as she had been at the beginning of the five years.

There was another thing about Mrs. de Barryos' life of which she was
apparently as proud as of her illness and patience, and that was the
fact that she was a lineal descendant of the renowned Pocahontas, a
fact at which some people laughed; but it was an undisputed fact, all
the same, for the historical Indian maiden had given birth to one of
the grandfathers upon the maternal side, and the curling hair and
weakness of character had been inherited from the branch of the family
that should have imparted its strength.

And it was of that same ancestress that Mrs. de Barryos was thinking as
she sat there beside the window, her eyes mechanically following the
flitting movements of a graceful form in the garden that was bending
above the roses.

And surely the girl was beautiful enough to look upon.

It might have been easy enough to believe that there was the blood of
an Indian flowing through her veins, for the clear olive complexion,
the inky blackness of the hair, which still was not straight, the
touch of crimson in the cheeks, and the great velvet eyes might have
indicated it. There was a better explanation of it, however, in the
fact that her father was a Mexican.

After a little she came toward the window at which her mother sat, her
arms filled with the lovely crimson blossoms that fitted her dusky
beauty so royally, and seated herself upon the sill of the window,
dropping the roses about her in gorgeous profusion as she prepared to
bind them into a bouquet.

"Aren't they exquisite?" she asked, admiringly, her voice a full, rich
contralto that made music even of the most ordinary speech. "It seems
to me that I never saw them so fine before."

"I wish you would put them away!" exclaimed her mother, querulously.
"It seems to me, Carlita, that you are