He met her eyes wide open to his, and he read, even then, something of the genuine unalterableness of her estimate of him. It was not necessary for her to return a word. “Speaking of our home, Kentucky,” Cherokee began, “why is it that writers quote us as illiterate and droll? It rather makes me lose interest in stories, or books, when I see such gross errors, whether they are willful or not.” “It is but a crop of rank weeds--this class of literature, people have no right to represent others they know nothing of, or discuss a subject to which they have scarcely been introduced. My characters are actual men and women. I have one they cannot fail to appreciate; you will see yourself as others see you,” he said, in softer tones. An ecstacy of hope lighted her face. “Will my husband appreciate me then?”--she regretted the question before she had voiced it. “Will he appreciate you then? Listen, don’t think that I speak to praise my own powers as a playwright. I have been a moderate success, but I don’t regard myself as a genius. The play will be a success on account of the leading character which I hope to draw true to life. Robert loves you now, but when he sees my play he will worship you then.” There was that in his earnest, enthusiastic face that told her Robert would not be alone in his devotion. “What do you call your play?” “I’ve not determined yet; though I’ve thought of dubbing it ‘A Womanly Woman, or My Heroine.’” “Don’t do that, for I am anything but a heroine.” “No woman was ever a truer one. What title would you propose?” “You want something that would suggest my real character--my striking characteristics?” “Most assuredly.” “Then, remember, that I am always stumbling along, allowing myself to be deceived and duped into doing silly things, and sometimes, as you have just told me, compromising things; weigh all these and call your play ‘A FOOL IN SPOTS.’” She laughed merrily, but there was a certain earnestness in her jest. “But where is Robert?” Latham suddenly asked. While avowing his devotion to his friend, he had not until now thought of asking this question, nor had it occurred to Cherokee to explain his absence. “He took his rifle and went out for a hunt,” she said, after a moment’s silence. “He begged that you would excuse him.” “I find ample excuse in the pleasure of being alone with you.” “Don’t say that; we must do nothing but what will profit and further the end he seeks.” “Trust me, I hope to be strong; we must see a little of each other.” “This is surely best,” she answered, with suppressed emotion. “And yet, and yet,” he added, as if speaking to himself, “I have much to communicate to you, but loyalty to my friend forbids confidences, though it is not wrong of me to say I want to see you perfectly happy.” Her lips moved nervously.