"What is it?" Cherokee repeated, coming forward, "has anything happened to my husband?"
"I'd bin out possum huntin'. I comed up de road, and I mighty nigh run over sumpin in de paff. I got down and he looked powr'ful like de artist I seed at de station."
"Marrion; my God, he is dead!"
"Wait and I will find out." He put his arm around her to support her. The stranger kept on talking:
"I tried to tote him, but he 'peared like two men; he'd weigh mighty nigh three hundred pounds, and den I didn't know as I oughter move him till de coroner and de jury set on him."
Marrion could not stop him.
"He ain't bin dead long, marm."
"That will do," interrupted Marrion.
"I will go and see; it may not be Robert; it may be someone else."
"Let me go with you," she pleaded.
"I don't know nothin' better fur you ter do than stay whar you is," put in the negro.
So Marrion hurried away to look after his friend. There was no sound in the gloomy wood—which was painful—any kind of noise would have been a relief. The thick foliage baffled the slightest light,
