had made. She had been honest enough to confess that she was weak—that she loved him, but that very confession was as a tower of strength to him.
"Cherokee, my idol, what will you of me?" he asked, in tender manly tones.
"I want you to promise, Marrion that you will always like me; let us be what human nature and worldly forms seldom allow those of opposite sexes to be—friends; having for each other that esteem which would be love if the hearts were unadulterated by clay. Your memory will be my nearest approach to happiness. I shall never be happy unless Robert reforms; then the old love and joy would come again."
There was on her face an expression, in her voice a tone, so appealing that it inspired him to say:
"I will save him by my life if need be."
She looked at him with an admiring, grateful gaze:
"Your friendship is even better than love."
"That is both," he answered.
"You will promise to go away at once, or I cannot live near you and without you."
"Yes, Cherokee, I promise," he said firmly, and continued:
"To-day for a short interval we have belonged to each other. Heart has spoken to heart. To-mor-
