“Now I come to Cherokee--let me try to describe her to you. In coloring, delicacy, freshness, she was a flower. Her hair was combed straight back, but it was perversely curly; and the short hairs around her forehead had a fashion of falling loosely about, which was very pretty. She was slim, her drooping-lashed eyes wore a soft seriousness. She at once chained my vagrant fancy and I promised myself that would not be the only time I should look upon her. On the homeward way the Major told me she was the only child of Darwin Bell, an excellent man. A man of good blood, good sense and piety, ‘but the best of all,’ continued the Major, ‘he was a gallant Confederate captain.’ “Then he happened to recall the fact that I was of the other side and said: ‘I beg your pardon young man, but Darwin and I were army mates, and that eulogy was but a heart-throb.’ “He had quite a little to tell of the negress. She was Cherokee’s ‘black mammy,’ and her faithfulness was a striking illustration of the devotion of the slaves. It seems to me that the most callous man or woman could not fail to appreciate little touches, here and there, of the sweet kindly feeling that nestles close to the core of honest human hearts. I went home that night in a softer mood.” “Softer in more senses than one, I judge, also poorer,” Frost returned, amusedly. “You mean I had lost my heart?” the other asked in an odd tone. “To be sure, but tell me more of Miss Bell, she is very like a serial story, and I want awfully to read the next chapters.” “Then you must learn the sequel from her.” “That is not quite fair of you, but I have a mind to; in fact, I know I cannot resist cultivating your blonde amaryllis, if you don’t object?” Willard Frost smiled half--chaffingly, and quite enjoyed the expression of surprise and anxiety upon his companion’s face. “That is a matter of the utmost indifference to me,” was the icy answer. The speaker’s hand, as it lay on the table, opened and shut in a quick nervous fashion, which showed that he was more annoyed than he looked, whereupon Frost waxed more eloquent and earnest. “I mean to enter, though well I know, when love is a game of three, one heart can win but pain.” “But that would surely be mine, for what chance has a poor devil of an artist like me with the invincible Frost?” “I come under the same heading,” returned Willard, “I am an artist too.” “Yes, but it would keep me in a desperate rush to run ahead of you--you the prince of the swagger set, a member of half a dozen clubs, owner of the smartest of four-in-hands, a capital dinner-giver, and a first-rate host, and, accompanying these, a plethoric purse to make all hospitalities easy.” As Robert spoke, Frost poured out the last of the second bottle of champagne and looked carelessly at the bill for it, which the waiter had presented to the other. “Suppose you find you a champion to do your battle--a John Alden?”