CHAPTER VII.
THE CALL OF A SOUL.
Now and again Cherokee kissed the roses with
pangs of speechless pain. The fragrance that
floated from their lips brought only anguish. To
her, white roses must ever mean white memories of
despair, and their pale ghosts would haunt long
after they were dead.
All day the family had been busy packing, for soon the Stanhopes would close the house and take flight. Cherokee had been forced to tell them she had changed her mind and would go to the country; she needed quiet, rest. Pride made her withhold the humiliating fact that she had just money enough to take her down to the South country.
There was a kind, generous friend, who, at her father's death, offered her a home under his roof for always, and now that promise came to her, holding out its inducement, but she would not accept it; somehow she felt glad that the time of leaving the Stanhopes was near. This pleasant house, these cheerful, affectionate surroundings, had become most intolerable since she must keep anything
