“I hope so; forgive me, Cherokee, but you do not know the world. It is deeper, darker, wider, than you have ever dreamed, and there are some very queer people in it. I shall keep my eyes open, and if I can help it, you shall never know it as I do.” “Why, what harm can come to me? What could the world have against me?” and her innocent face looked hurt. “Nothing, except your beauty and purity, and either is a dangerous charge. I wish you could have always lived among the bees and bloomings, with the South country folk.” “Why, do you find it annoying to have me near?” “No, but very annoying to have you near others I know. I cannot quite understand some men--for instance, Willard Frost.” “I think he is a very warm friend of yours.” “Probably so, probably so. But, Cherokee, tell me, in truth, do you love him?” “I do not,” she answered, promptly, and there was nothing in her eyes but truth. “My God,” Robert cried within him, “you have been merciful. Cherokee, listen to me--I know you already understand what I am about to say: You have known from the first that you are the greatest of what there is in my life. There is no joy through all the day but that it brings with it a desire to share it with you. I often awake with your half-spoken name on my lips, as though, when I slipped through the portals of unconsciousness into the world of reality, I came only to find you, as a frightened child awakes and calls feebly for its mother. I look to your love for the sweetness of home. I need you; can you say ‘We need each other?’” The adoration he expressed for her filled her with innocent wonder and gratitude. His overpowering love and worship for her startled her by its force into a sweet shame, a hesitating fear. She was looking at him with her eyes softly opening and closing, like the eyes of a startled doe, as though the wonder and delight were too great to be taken in at once. At length she made answer, hesitatingly, “And--this--beautiful--love--is--for--me?” “It is all for you,” he said, tenderly. “Robert, there is a feeling for you which I think is a part of my soul, but I do not know that it is love. It came to me--this feeling--so long ago that I believe that it has a seven-years’ claim. It was far back yonder, when I played at “camping out” under the broad white tents that the dogwoods pitched in the forest. I spent hours and hours in my play making clover chains to reach from my heart to yours--” Here he interrupted her. “And it did reach me, finding fertile soil in which to grow. Tell me you have kept your part alive.” “I cannot tell yet, I am going to test it. I believe I will imagine you feeling the morning kiss of Miss Baxter, and watching her good-night smile, and see if I would care.” “Please do, but tell me why you said Miss Baxter? Why not any other lady of my acquaintance?” “I suppose it is because I often hear that you are awfully fond of her.”