“Yes, Cherokee, I promise,” he said firmly, and continued: “To-day for a short interval we have belonged to each other. Heart has spoken to heart. To-morrow you are only my friend’s wife. Not a word, not a thought of yours or mine must destroy his trust. Our past will lie buried as in a deep grave, no tears bedewing it, no flowers marking the spot.” So sorrowfully, even despairingly, were the words uttered that it seemed Cherokee’s turn to comfort. “Think of me as almost happy since I know that you love me so,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Tears from you for me,” he cried. “Bless you, bless you; may you think of me as one whose loyalty to another is loyalty to yourself,” he murmured. “I must go away and meet you no more. Pass a few busy, taskful years, come and go a few brief seasons of stimulating activity and wholesome intercourse; then I can hold out my untrembling hand to Robert’s wife, and forget the lover in the friend; now let us part.” She stepped forward and extended her hand; he kissed it and pressed it warmly, and then the dream was ended. A matter of a moment, true enough, but death itself is but a moment, yet eternity is its successor. Cherokee took the path to the house; her eyes held a troubled light as they looked back, Marrion was standing where she had left him, in a hopeless attitude. His head drooped low with a slow motion of despair, which seemed almost tranquil in its acceptance of destiny. A low, late sunshine crept through the swathing blue, softly bright upon him. CHAPTER XXV. TEMPTED. For a time Marrion Latham stood in a sad reverie; then he slowly went back to the house, following the path Cherokee had taken. He entered the house unobserved, and went directly to his room, from which he did not emerge until the clock told him that the hour was eleven. He was going to leave; upon that point he was decided. The midnight train would take him to the city. He took his grip, and crept out stealthily without a word, for he could not now own what was forcing him to leave. Of course it would seem strange to Robert, but written lines could not clear it up. It would take more than a note to explain such an offense as this would seem; it could only be made plain in person. It needed the voice, the eye, the spirit breathing through the words to make them effective. He had decided to wait until the artist returned to New York. As he stepped out on the piazza he noticed that the blinds of the studio were open and the window up. “I will take a last look,” he thought, as he went up to the window. “Cherokee, Cherokee,” but his whisper was too deep, she did not hear. There she stood before the painting, her arms wide open as though ready to enfold the image; then she drew back, and her low sobbing was heard--not despair, not sorrow, not even loss flowed in those relieving tears--they came as a balm, allowing the pent-up force of suffering to ooze out.