and sick, so he lay down across the foot of his bed and finally went to sleep. In his sleep nature had her way—was no longer held in check by his will, and so, when his weary brain, his sad, unresting heart cried out they could no longer endure, she came and gave them rest.
Two hours afterward found him somewhat refreshed, but he was sorry to have awakened; he should have liked to sleep—that was all. That most vexing question kept repeating itself to him. "Why are the best motives of our lives turned into wolves, that come back, ravenous, to feed upon our helpless and tortured selves?"
Willard Frost's letter had made so slight an impression upon him that, until this reminder, he had quite forgotten it; had carelessly dropped it down, never thinking of it again until now.
It looked hard, that he had come away to save that home, and then, to have the head of that home confront him with a pen picture of a scoundrel placarded "Marrion Latham."
It was an unexpected experiment, and an astounding shock. With hands clasped behind him Marrion restlessly paced the floor, trying to determine what was the best thing for him to do.
He could board the next train and go back; but no, Cherokee had his promise that he would stay
