“Not at all; what is purer and sweeter than to be forest-bred? Why, after all these long years, I tire of my city fostering and long for the South country where your mother and I grew into womanhood. And while Fred chaffs you about being a country girl, he is really proud of you. He often talks to me: ‘Why, mother,’ he tells me, ‘I never saw anything like it; as soon as she appeared she shone; a sudden brightness fills the place wherever she goes; a softened splendor comes around.’ And dear, I am not blind, I see you are besieged by smiles and light whispered loves--you hold all hearts in that sweet thrall; you are the bright flame in which many moths burn.” “You are both very, very, kind--Fred and you”--Here she was interrupted by a maid entering with a card. “Mr. Willard Frost.” “Ah, Cherokee, what did I tell you? He has even taken the liberty of calling at unconventional hours.” As Frost waited below he nervously moved about; there was a sort of sub-conscious discomfort, as of one whose clothes are a misfit. The least sound added to his uneasy feeling. “Am I actually in love with her?” he asked, “or does her maidenly and becoming coyness excite my surfeited passion? Is it something that will burn off at a touch, like a lighted sedge-field,” he reflected. “Would I marry her if I could? Well, what’s the difference? The part I have undertaken is a good one; I will see it through and risk the winning.” When Cherokee appeared he thought her lovelier than ever. He looked hungrily at her fair, high-bred face, her enigmatical smile that might mean so much or so little. She gave him her hand in kindly welcome. “You will pardon my stupidity to-day, for I shouldn’t have come feeling so badly, and I should not have come at all had I not wanted a kind word of sympathy,” he said, when the first salutations were received. “You did quite right,” she answered, “burdens shared are easier carried. What is your trouble?” “I would not confide in many, but somehow I have always felt we were vastly more than common friends. Do you feel that way about it?” he asked, in weighing tones. “I take great delight in your companionship,” she told him, frankly. “And it is these subtle, intelligent sympathies which make you most dangerously charming. Now, I have a question; do not answer me if you think it wrong of me to ask, but did you ever like a man so well that you fancied yourself married to him?” She laughed a care-free, girlish laugh. “Why no, now that you ask, I’m sure I never did.” Then there was a long, uncomfortable pause, broken by saying: “Ah, well, there’s time enough, only be sure that you know your heart, if you have any; have you?” She laughed again her gay little laugh. “I’ll tell him that if he ever comes.” He had a far-away look, and breathed long and deeply. Suddenly he spoke up.