CHAPTER XXIV.
OF THE WORLD, UNWORLDLY.
It was true that Robert was dead—dead drunk,
and to drink was his purpose in leaving Marrion at
home. He had been held in check until he could
not—he felt it was impossible—work any longer
until he had gotten under the influence of drink.
It was more than a week before he was able to resume his work. Marrion put his best efforts forth to sober him, but all resulted in failure. This annoyed him more than he dared tell Cherokee. He felt that Robert had not the proper appreciation; for here he had given up his work and pleasures for a time, that he might aid in the artist's advancement. It surely seemed a thankless task.
One day, when patience was exhausted, he poured forth his very soul in one long, fervent—swear; took up his hat and started out for a walk.
As he tramped, wondered, swore, he strolled on toward the stream. He always was a dream-haunter of the woods, realizing that communion with nature
