“You mean separation; the world or a convent?” she began, gently, growing calmer as she went on, “I had thought of that, I must out with the truth. I went away once, but a good friend advised me to go back. She told me living for others was a long way towards being happy.” Looking on the floor she got out the remainder of her sentence, “and now I intend to stay.” As she spoke the words to Marrion there came upon her a terrible sense of emptiness and desolation. Obeying a sudden impulse, she arose to leave. “I shall go to my room now; I must think awhile alone. I am glad it’s such a sad sort of a day; if it were bright I couldn’t stand it.” Marrion followed her to the door, raised her hands to his lips, and suddenly breaking away as if unworthy to pay such homage cried: “I could kneel to you, true, grand woman. Your resolution is full of the gravest, tenderest meaning. You think of him only; his reputation is dearer to you than your own happiness. This nobility of your character is the very touchstone and measure of your womanliness.” She paused on the threshold a moment, then hurried away. The whole day Marrion spent in sympathy with her. If he could find but some way to make Robert promise never to touch another drop of drink, he knew he would be safe; for he was one man who never made a promise but to keep. Of ever securing his promise, he sometimes despaired, but not for the world would he hint it to Cherokee. As the day wore to a close the wind came in fitful gusts; a pale moon glittered faintly among the ragged clouds that drifted across the sky like sails torn from wrecked ships. Cherokee sat by the window watching for Robert. In that warm latitude the soft, dewless hours are spent in lightless rooms or on piazzas. The daffodil tints of the higher sky were reddening to a guinea gold. There was no other light except the moon. Marrion sat just outside, smoking; he was allured again and again by a strong sense of Cherokee’s beauty of face and pose, enticed by some spiritual vivacity, and hazed by cares. The moon, still pale and languorous, shone from the lately racked sky on the tree buds, so warm in tone that their color became an old ivory, and the limbs and branches black carvings and traceries. Faint mists rose in wreaths and floated in gossamer folds about the trunks of the trees, and at times above their forms. The whole scene had a meaning of sad regrets. Cherokee broke the silence: “I wonder what keeps Robert so long; it must be nine o’clock.” “Don’t be uneasy, he is doubtless with some congenial companion.” Then, almost before he knew it, Marrion asked: “Did you know that Robert was dissipated before you married him?” He felt himself tremble, as if he intruded where she knelt. As intimately as he had known her, yet he never before had dared approach her inner life so nearly. “Tell me all,” he said. “If ever a heart could open to a friend, now must that door unclose.”