She felt that the best plan for her was to take her husband away from his associates, herself away from hers, and let time and change bring about a reformation, and, in spite of the warning, she hoped that the old fond love would come to them again. There is no period in life when we are more accessible to friendship than in the interval which succeeds the disappointment of the passions. There is then, in those gentler feelings, something that keeps alive but does not fever the affections. Marrion had influenced himself to believe that such was his interest in Cherokee, but he was never more deceived. Cherokee’s trouble in regard to her husband, and her fear of the growing regard for Marrion were not her only annoyances; occasionally she met Willard Frost. She could not avoid treating him politely, her duty towards her husband forced her to do that; but she regarded him with veritable repugnance. One evening, Robert had invited Marrion to dinner, and the latter had arrived before her husband. As he and Cherokee sat waiting, the maid entered with a package. It was an exquisite surprise. Though it was well into March, winter’s keen blast had not so subdued the spring warmth as to keep it from bringing into quick bloom the pansies and jasmines. “Robert knows how dearly I love flowers; he has sent them on to make me happier and announce his coming, the dear boy,” she exclaimed with a touch of her old time impulsiveness. She kissed them, and questioned if they had brought back her lost faith--her girl’s joy in loving. “I wish I could keep them alive always,” she sighed, sweetly. While she began to arrange them in the vase, her maid, whose eyes appeared like leaves of dusty mullein, stared at her because she had kept her waiting. “What shall I say to the messenger?” “Tell him there is no answer.” “Here is his card, madam.” Cherokee stared wildly, as if a serpent had wriggled around her feet. “It is from Mr. Frost--this gift,” and she ventured an imploring glance into Marrion’s face. “What would you do with them?” he asked. “Do? What can I do but send them back.” As Marrion watched her admiringly, and saw her take each flower and lay it carefully back into the box, he felt that his quiet friendship was tottering above a molten furnace. “I trust you approve of my course, Mr. Latham?” she queried, as Annie took the box away. “It would make me perfectly happy if I were the husband.” He supplemented the impulsive words with a decided blush, in which Cherokee could not choose but join. Then he cried: “Why didn’t we meet before, you and I?” She didn’t answer this, for, hearing steps in the passage, she ran out to meet her husband; whether he was drunk or sober she never failed in her little tenderness, that should have brought to him an over-payment of delight. CHAPTER XX. A CROP O’ KISSES. It was six o’clock, and the lowering sun had singed the western sky with a scallop of faded brown.