CHAPTER XX.
A CROP O' KISSES.
It was six o'clock, and the lowering sun had
singed the western sky with a scallop of faded
brown.
April, with her wreathed crook, was leading her glad flock about the hem of the city's skirt, winding a golden mist away into the country's lushways. Nature's voice sounded: "Oh heart, your winter's past."
But it was not true with Cherokee, as she sat by the window waiting for her husband. The room was quite still; she was only half admitting to herself that it had come—the divide; in her hand she held a dainty pair of white gloves; in one of the fingers there was a crumpled paper—a note, maybe—but this she did not know, though what husband would believe it?
Presently he came in, and she greeted him as usual, though he had been cross that morning.
"I can't imagine why I am so tired all the time, it seems I do very little," he said, as he dropped wearily down on a couch near by.
