“Nothing has ever shaken my faith in you, Cherokee, until now, and this I must and will understand. Take your choice between force and persuasion.” A deep wave of self-conscious color rushed over her face; suddenly she grew very pale, and her whole attitude toward him stiffened. She laid the little white gloves in his hands, saying: “I did not care to worry or accuse you.” He shrank back, and they eyed each other fixedly. “I call this a mean, contemptible trick,” he said, bitterly, “and now what are you going to do about it?” “I have done all I intend to do,” she said, calmly. “And pray what’s that?” “Mended a rent in the fore-finger.” Robert felt abashed at this, though there were still some ugly lines between his brows. “Let’s kiss and make up,” he said, and as she wound her arms about him, his whole manner changed, softened into melting. “I did not read the note in the glove, if you believe me.” “I do believe you, for it was not a note, but a programme of ‘Ogallalahs’;” then he laughed. “And the gloves belong to Marrion’s sweetheart; he left them at the studio and I just----” “Oh! that will do,” she said merrily, as she supplemented his explanation with kisses. CHAPTER XXI. A HOPE OF CHANGE. They were christening Marrion’s new spider, Robert and Cherokee. “We will drive an hour or so longer, if you are not too tired.” “I am not at all tired; let us go on,” she insisted. “I will show you where Latham’s fiancee lives,” he carelessly proposed. “When are they to be married?” she asked, scarcely above her breath. “I don’t know the date, but she will get one of the finest boys on earth. They will have this magnificent country home to spend their summers in, and that is such a blessing--the air out there is so pure and sweet and healthful. It is a great pity that everybody can’t get an occasional taste of country life.” “I did not know we had come so far, but here we are in the woods--the real country. I can almost hear the frogs calling from slushy banks, and the faint, intermittent tinkle of cow-bells stealing over pasture lands. I do love the country!” she exclaimed, fervently. “So do I,” laughed Robert, “but the country has its tragedies, too. For example: my old-maid Aunt once made me weed the onion bed on circus day. I would have had to ride a stick horse to the town, four miles away, where the tent was pitched, but children would do almost anything to get to a circus.” “Yet you did not get to that one?” asked Cherokee, gaily. “No, and for fifteen years I treasured that against my Aunt.” “And I should not wonder if you hold it still.” He dropped his voice to the register of tenderness and said, sadly: “I hold nothing against her now. The dear old creature had sorrow enough--she died unmarried.” Then they came to the home he was to show her. After that there was a lull in the conversation.