“You are mistaken,” returned Marrion, “many a good woman, mother, wife, has borne the cross to where she could lay it aside and take a crown. Take the drink habit, for instance; once an excessive, always one. Now, I can drink or let it alone.” “I detest a drunkard,” said Frost, laconically. “But somebody’s father, brother, or husband, might be strong in all other points and weak in that one,” Cherokee spoke, just a trifle severely. “And woman has the brunt of it to bear,” said Marrion. “I hold that we are nearer true happiness when we demand too little from men than when we expect too much,” was Frost’s retort. Here Robert turned to Marrion: “I see, from your play, that you believe in an equal standard of morals. You propose to be as lenient with women as with men.” “Say, rather, I am in favor of justice,” was the manly reply. “This doctrine of yours is quite dangerous,” Frost interrupted, to which Marrion answered: “It is the doctrine of Him who teaches forgiveness of sins.” “Ah, Latham, you have taken a stupendous task upon yourself, if you mean to reform men,” laughed Frost. “Some men and beasts you can improve, but other natures--like wild hyenas--once wild, wild forever,” was Marrion’s bright rejoinder. “I am not looking for them,” was the answer. “Come to the office with me for a moment,” Willard Frost turned to Robert, when the suggestion for returning home had been made. “There is a fine painting in there that I want you to see.” They were nearly half an hour absent, but, engaged in pleasant conversation, Cherokee and Marrion did not notice the lapse of time. When the men came back, the quick eye of Marrion noticed that Robert had been drinking, and that near the border line of excess. CHAPTER XVII. AN ERRAND OF MYSTERY. It was some months afterward. Cherokee, gowned in violet and gold, was on her way to the Chrysanthemum Show, where she felt sure of meeting some of her friends. She was walking briskly, when she was importuned by an old man for help. Dropping some coins into his entreating palm, she passed on. How little we know whom we may meet when we leave our doors, and before entering them again. Often one’s whole life is changed between the exit and entrance of a home. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Milburn, how pleased I am to meet you here. Are you out for pleasure?” Whose voice could that be but Willard Frost’s, sounding in her ears like clods on a coffin. “Yes, I presume one would call it pleasure, going to the Chrysanthemum Show and to get some flowers for hospital patients. You know the sick love these little attentions.” “There, that’s an illustration of what I am contemplating. Do you know I think you are just the person I wanted to meet this morning?” “Why?” she asked, indifferently. “Because you can do a great kindness as well as give pleasure to some one who is in need of both, if you will?” “You want me to help some one who is in distress?” “I do. Will you?” “How much does the person need?”