When she broke the silence, it was very softly.  “Berkeley,” she said, “it was kindly done of that Federal officer to let us know.  This is the third letter he wrote about poor Temple; the others must have miscarried.”

“They did; and this one only reached us just in time.  You see, communication with the south in those early days was more than uncertain.  If Roy hadn’t happened to be in Richmond, it’s a question whether I should have received this one.  It was kindly done, as you say, and this General Smith was a kindly man.  I shall never forget his consideration for my mother, nor the kindness he showed poor Temple.  But for his aid we could hardly have managed at the last, in spite of Roy’s efforts.  We owe him a debt of gratitude I’d fain repay.  God bless him!”

“Amen!” echoed Pocahontas, softly.

CHAPTER VI.

One bright, crisp morning about the middle of October, Pocahontas stood in the back yard surrounded by a large flock of turkeys.  They were handsome birds of all shades, from lightish red to deep glossy black; the sunlight on their plumage made flashes of iridescent color, green, purple, and blue, and that royal shade which seems to combine and reflect the glory of all three.  Their heads were bent picking up the corn their mistress threw from the little basket in her hand, but occasionally the great gobblers would pause in their meal, and puff themselves out and spread their tails and throw their crimson heads back against their shining feathers, and proudly strut backward and forward, to the admiration, doubtless, of their mates.

Turkeys were the young lady’s specialty, and on them alone of all the denizens of the poultry yard did she bestow her personal attention.  From the thrilling moment in early spring when she scribbled the date of its arrival on the first egg, until the full-grown birds were handed over to Aunt Rachel to be fattened for the table, the turkeys were her particular charge, and each morning and afternoon saw her sally forth, armed with a pan full of curds, or a loaf of brown bread, for her flock.

Her usual attendant, on these occasions, was a little colored boy named Sawney—­the last of a line of Sawneys extending back to the dining-room servant of Pocahontas’s great-grandmother.  The economy in nomenclature on a southern plantation in the olden time was worthy of Dandie Dinmont himself.  The Sawney in question was a grandson of Aunt Rachel, and an utterly abominable little darkey, inky black, grotesque, and spoiled to a degree.  He was devoted to Pocahontas, and much addicted to following her about, wherever she would allow him.  At feeding-time he always appeared as duly as the turkeys, for Pocahontas never forgot to put a biscuit, or a lump of sugar, in her pocket for him.

With the largest black gobbler Sawney was on terms of deadly enmity; for on more than one occasion had his precious biscuit been plucked from his unsuspicious hand, and borne away in triumph by the wily bird.  Half of feeding time was usually consumed by Sawney in throwing small stones at his enemy, who, as he was never by any chance smitten, would raise his head from time to time and gobble his assailant to scorn.