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 Cherokee listened pensively the while; she could see the path to be trodden by Robert's side, uphill, rough, bristling with thorns.

"I have tried to do what is my part, my duty always."

"And let me tell you how grandly you have succeeded."

Thrilling and flushing she heard this compliment.

"We are Rebels, both of us; perhaps you are partial," she suggested.

"I do admire you, that you are a Southerner, and more because you are a Kentuckian, but surely you would not accuse me of running my political prejudice into individual instance; I want to give you justice, that's all."

He met her eyes wide open to his, and he read, even then, something of the genuine unalterableness of her estimate of him. It was not necessary for her to return a word.

"Speaking of our home, Kentucky," Cherokee began, "why is it that writers quote us as illiterate and droll? It rather makes me lose interest in stories, or books, when I see such gross errors, whether they are willful or not."

"It is but a crop of rank weeds—this class of literature, people have no right to represent others they know nothing of, or discuss a subject to which