It was noon--that supreme moment of life and light. The tall silver-faced clock rang out twelve silvery chimes as ten maidens, in wash-white, entered, strewing flowers in the path. These white robed attendants, standing now aisle-wise, made a symphony of bloom. All eyes followed the bride as she appeared on the arm of the handsome, kindly Major, full of dignity, full of sweetness as well. Every heart burst forth into an exclamation of delight and admiration. There was youth, sweetness and love on her flushing face. Few brides have looked happier than Cherokee; few men have looked more manly than Robert Milburn, as he met and took her hand for life. The ceremony was followed by a shower of congratulations. A hurried change to her going-away gown, and they were ready to take their final leave. The Major and his wife said good-bye, and then again, good-bye, with a lingering emphasis that made the word as kind as a caress. A few minutes more and they were gone. There was nothing left but the scattered rice on the ground, and Sylvan, with bowed head--as though he knew the hand of Cherokee had now another charge; while over all sifted the long benediction of sunlight and falling leaves. CHAPTER XV. CHLORAL. It was a half hour past midnight. A cab drew up in front of a residence in New York, and two men bore something into the outer doorway. The bell gave a startling alarm, and presently, from within, a voice asked, with drowsy tremor: “Is that you, Robert, husband?” “Open the door quickly,” some one insisted. “But that is not Robert’s voice,” she faltered. “Madam, a friend has brought your husband home.” This assurance caused the door to be quickly opened. “Good heavens! is he ill? Is he hurt? Bring him this way,” she excitedly directed. The silken draperies of the bed were trembling, showing that she had just left their folds. After depositing the burden, the cab man bowed, and left them. “It is not at all serious, my dear madam,” the friend began, “but the truth is--” here he hesitated confusedly, he did not mean to tell her the truth at all; anything else but that. “Oh, sir, tell me the worst; what has happened?” and she leaned lovingly over the unconscious man; she looked so earnest in her grief--so unsuspecting--that Marrion was convinced that this was the first “full” of the honeymoon. “I will help him out of this,” he said to himself. “Robert had a terrific headache at the club, and we gave him chloral--he took a trifle too much--that is all--he will be quite himself by morning.” “Oh! sir, are you sure it is not fatal?” Cherokee asked, anxiously, “absolutely sure? But how could anyone be so careless,” she remonstrated. “I do not wonder that you ask, since it was Marrion Latham who was so thoughtless.” “Marrion Latham! my husband’s dearest friend.” “I am what is left of him,” he answered, laughingly. She extended her hand, cordially: