“Ah, no indeed, I would never take the liberty of reversing the order of things, for they just suit me,” and Miss Baxter’s bright eyes twinkled under drooping lashes. As she smiled she raised a glass of wine to her lips, kissed the brim, and gave it to Willard Frost with an indescribably graceful swaying gesture of her whole form. “Here’s to your pastoral sweetheart, the sorceress, sovereign of the South.” [Illustration: “‘Here’s to your pastoral sweetheart, the sorceress, sovereign of the South.’” Page 40.] He seized the glass eagerly, drank, and returned it with a profound salutation. The consummate worldlings were surprised to hear Miss Bell answer: “Thank you, but how much more appropriate would be, ‘Here’s to a Fool in Spots!’” Willard replied, with a shake of the head: “Ah, no, you have too much ‘snap’ to be called a fool in any sense, besides, you only need being disciplined--you’ll be enjoying life by and by. When I first met our friend Milburn he was saying the same thing, but where is he now?----” Here Miss Baxter laid her pretty jeweled hand warningly upon his arm. “Come, you would not be guilty of divulging such a delicious secret, would you?” He treated the matter mostly as a joke, and returned with a tantalizing touch in his speech: “Robert didn’t mean to do it. We must forgive.” Cherokee looked puzzled as she caught the exchange of significant smiles. She spoke, as always, in her own soft, syllabled tongue. “What do you mean, may I ask?” Willard Frost coughed, and took her fan with affectionate solicitude. “It may not be just fair to answer your question. I am sorry.” “Mr. Milburn is a friend of mine, and if anything has happened to him why shouldn’t I know it?” she inquired, somewhat tremulously. No combination of letters can hope to convey an idea of the music of her rare utterance of her sweetheart’s name. “But you wouldn’t like him better for the knowing,” he interrupted. “Besides, he will come out all right if he follows my instructions implicitly.” She stared blankly at him, vainly trying to comprehend what he meant. Then there came an anxious look on her face, such a look as people wear when they wish to ask something of great moment, but dare not begin. At last she summoned up courage. “Mr. Frost,” she said, in a weak, low voice, “he--Robert--hasn’t done anything wrong?” “Wrong, what do you call wrong?” was the laconic question, “but I trust the matter is not so serious as it appears.” “Ah, I am so foolish,” and she smiled gently. “No, it is well enough to have a friend’s interest at heart, and you won’t cut him off if you hear it--you are not that sort. I know you are clever and thoughtful, and all that, but you possess the forgiving spirit. Now, unlike some men, I judge people gently, don’t come down on other men’s failings. Who are we, any of us, that we should be hard on others?” “Judge gently,” she replied. “I hope I always do that.”