trusting and as innocent as his daughters in many ways; he shrank
from the unwelcome facts of life. His own childhood had been hard
and disciplinary, and at Cherry's age he had been concerned only
with realities, with the need of food and clothes and shelter.
That a life could be spoiled simply by contact with an
unsympathetic personality was incomprehensible to him. The child,
he told himself, had a good husband, a home and health, and
undeveloped resources within herself. It was puzzling and painful
to him to realize that there was needed something more--and that
that something was lacking. He felt a sudden anger at Martin; why
wasn't Martin managing this affair!

"Mart doesn't mention any time!" he mused.

"Thanks to you!" Cherry said, dimpling mischievously. "He wrote
quite firmly, just before Christmas," she added, "but I told him
that Dad had been such an angel and liked so much to have me here-
-" And Cherry's smile was full of childish triumph.

"My dear," her father said, spurred to sudden courage by a
realization that the matter might easily become serious, "you
mustn't abuse his generosity. Suppose you write that you'll join
him--this is March--suppose you say the first of April?"

Cherry flushed and looked down. Her lips trembled. There was a
moment of unhappy silence.

"Very well, Dad," she said in a low voice. A second later she had
jumped to her feet and vanished in the house. Her father roamed
the woods in wretched misgivings, coming in at lunch time to find