"Yes."
"She made home so dear to my boyhood; so real to my after years. She was ever burning there a holy beacon, under whose guidance I always came to a haven and to a refuge."
Then they suddenly came upon Cherokee, partly concealed.
"I told him we would find you down among the flowers, you little butterfly. Why didn't you tell me Robert was coming, he is one of my boys?" and the Major laid his hand affectionately on the man's shoulder; then, without waiting for an answer, he left them together.
Holding out one hand: "I am glad to see you, Cherokee," and he drew closer.
She crimsoned, faltered, and looked toward the ground, but did not extend her own hand.
"Thank you," was all she could utter.
He went on: "The very same; the Cherokee of old;" he mused, smiling dreamily, "her own self, like no other."
Moving a step within the vine covert she said with a shadowy smile:
"I wish I were not the old self. I want her to be forgotten."
"That is impossible—utterly impossible; I tried
