It was more than a week before he was able to resume his work. Marrion put his best efforts forth to sober him, but all resulted in failure. This annoyed him more than he dared tell Cherokee. He felt that Robert had not the proper appreciation; for here he had given up his work and pleasures for a time, that he might aid in the artist’s advancement. It surely seemed a thankless task. One day, when patience was exhausted, he poured forth his very soul in one long, fervent--swear; took up his hat and started out for a walk. As he tramped, wondered, swore, he strolled on toward the stream. He always was a dream-haunter of the woods, realizing that communion with nature strangely ministers to heart wounds and breathes sweetened memories. Suddenly his steps were arrested by the spectacle of Cherokee lying at full length upon the grass, one arm lay across her eyes, the other was stretched on the ground. She had never looked prettier. He sat down by her and took her hand. A thousand thoughts chased themselves with lightning speed through his brain; meanwhile the pressure of that hand continued; he leaned over, took her arm away, and looked down into her face. Whether it came to him suddenly as a revelation, or grew upon him like a widening light--that knowledge of a love that wronged his honor--it had come too late. Had he been asleep, or mad, that this should have conquered him unawares. Where was his experience of human nature--his worldly wisdom--his ever abiding sense of honor--that he should have allowed a love for another man’s wife to enter his thoughts and take possession, and that man his dearest friend! It seemed but yesterday that this woman was to him only as dear as a friend might be, without wrong to his or her own faith. Now he knew she was more--a thousand times dearer than all life lives for--dearer than all save honor, if, indeed, he questioned, that were not already lost. Yet no, there was no wrong. His love was worship, instinct with reverence, he could not for that very love’s sake destroy its object. “You want me to go away and leave you alone, Cherokee?” he asked. “No, Marrion, no! I am too much alone, and that makes me hungry, desperately hungry, for companionship,” she stammered. “But, tell me, how is Robert?” “No better; I am almost ashamed to ask you to be brave any more, for I’ve hoped so long without fulfillment.” She answered: “I ask myself how long this banishment is to last--this exile from joy.” “Everything here has an end; the brighter side may come at last.” “No, it will never come, it is all a mistake; even life itself.” “Oh, don’t say that, Cherokee; I am with you. Don’t you care for----” Here he stopped, but she understood, and her answer, said in silence, was the sweetest word of all.