If Cherokee had but known that the plighted troth was broken—had gone all to pieces, in fact—she might have felt some relief for that dull ache she felt. Suddenly she turned to her husband:
"Robert, I have a great favor to ask?"
"What's that?"
"Let's take a vacation. Change would help us both."
"I am too busy, Cherokee, I cannot leave my work now. People are never contented. Those in the depths of the country sigh for the city excitement, and those in the city long to be soaked in sunshine and tangled in green fields."
"I suppose it is selfish. I shall not ask you again," she answered, resignedly.
"If things were different, nothing would please me more than to take an outing by mountains or seaside."
"Neither for me," she answered. "I would rather spend the summer down at my old home in Kentucky; you know my cousin owns it, and no one lives there at present. I should like to go back where I could sit again beneath a big, low moon, and hear the reapers sing—where I could see the brown gabled barns, and smell the loose hay-mows' scented locks."
