“No. I didn’t believe it; I should have never married him if I had known. I made a mistake. A Southern girl should only marry one of her kind; he alone could understand and appreciate her nature.” It was not prompted by accidental harmony, this answer, she felt he had a right to know all: “When I first loved Robert, he was a splendid masterman, and so tender of me. He seemed the breath of my body; his heart, not mine, beating within me. I fancy now that his love was only a reflection from the flame that burned in my soul, for if it were not true surely that love would have reformed him.” “No, he does love you, and you will yet be happy together.” She was hungry for his assurance, and her “Heaven bless you for your sympathy,” was spoken earnestly. “But I wish he would come. Suppose he has gotten into that quick-sand in the creek bed.” “Suppose he has swallowed the gun.” “Don’t speak so lightly,” she corrected. Marrion thought as he noted her anxiety: “Blind devotion is the sainthood of woman.” “Now, here he comes. I hope you are happy,” but a chill gripped his heart as he saw it was a stranger, whose walk indicated haste. “Ain’t this here whar Mars’ Milburn’s wife stay?” “Yes, what is it?” asked Marrion. “What is it?” Cherokee repeated, coming forward, “has anything happened to my husband?” “I’d bin out possum huntin’. I comed up de road, and I mighty nigh run over sumpin in de paff. I got down and he looked powr’ful like de artist I seed at de station.” “Marrion; my God, he is dead!” “Wait and I will find out.” He put his arm around her to support her. The stranger kept on talking: “I tried to tote him, but he ’peared like two men; he’d weigh mighty nigh three hundred pounds, and den I didn’t know as I oughter move him till de coroner and de jury set on him.” Marrion could not stop him. “He ain’t bin dead long, marm.” “That will do,” interrupted Marrion. “I will go and see; it may not be Robert; it may be someone else.” “Let me go with you,” she pleaded. “I don’t know nothin’ better fur you ter do than stay whar you is,” put in the negro. So Marrion hurried away to look after his friend. There was no sound in the gloomy wood--which was painful--any kind of noise would have been a relief. The thick foliage baffled the slightest light, and it was with the greatest difficulty that they groped their way, keeping in the road. “Stop! here he am!” cried the negro, who had been piloting the way. “I thought he couldn’t o’ bin dead long, fer he ain’t cold yet.” CHAPTER XXIV. OF THE WORLD, UNWORLDLY. It was true that Robert was dead--dead drunk, and to drink was his purpose in leaving Marrion at home. He had been held in check until he could not--he felt it was impossible--work any longer until he had gotten under the influence of drink.