CHAPTER XVII.
AN ERRAND OF MYSTERY.
It was some months afterward. Cherokee, gowned
in violet and gold, was on her way to the Chrysanthemum
Show, where she felt sure of meeting some
of her friends. She was walking briskly, when she
was importuned by an old man for help. Dropping
some coins into his entreating palm, she passed
on.
How little we know whom we may meet when we leave our doors, and before entering them again. Often one's whole life is changed between the exit and entrance of a home.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Milburn, how pleased I am to meet you here. Are you out for pleasure?"
Whose voice could that be but Willard Frost's, sounding in her ears like clods on a coffin.
"Yes, I presume one would call it pleasure, going to the Chrysanthemum Show and to get some flowers for hospital patients. You know the sick love these little attentions."
"There, that's an illustration of what I am con-
