She laid her hand in playful reproach upon his lips. “Sorry, you foolish boy! I am glad you are here, isn’t that enough?”
“I hope so; forgive me, Cherokee, but you do not know the world. It is deeper, darker, wider, than you have ever dreamed, and there are some very queer people in it. I shall keep my eyes open, and if I can help it, you shall never know it as I do.”
“Why, what harm can come to me? What could the world have against me?” and her innocent face looked hurt.
“Nothing, except your beauty and purity, and either is a dangerous charge. I wish you could have always lived among the bees and bloomings, with the South country folk.”
“Why, do you find it annoying to have me near?”
“No, but very annoying to have you near others I know. I cannot quite understand some men—for instance, Willard Frost.”
“I think he is a very warm friend of yours.”
“Probably so, probably so. But, Cherokee, tell me, in truth, do you love him?”
“I do not,” she answered, promptly, and there was nothing in her eyes but truth.
“My God,” Robert cried within him, “you have been merciful. Cherokee, listen to me—I know you already understand what I am about to say: You have known from the first that you are the greatest of what there is in my life. There is no joy through all the day but that it brings with it a desire to share it with you. I often awake with your half-spoken name on my lips, as though, when I slipped through the portals of unconsciousness into the world of reality, I came only to find you, as a frightened child awakes and calls feebly for its mother. I look to your love for the sweetness of home. I need you; can you say ‘We need each other?’”