toward Martin by so purely speculative a prejudice. The young man
had dined at his house a few nights ago, had shown an admiration,
if not an appreciation, for music, had talked with sufficient
intelligence about political matters, mining, and--what else?
photography, and pullman cars, and the latest wreck off Bolinas--
just the random conversation that was apt to trail through a
country dinner. He had told a Chinese joke well, and essayed an
Irish joke not so successfully. Peter, somewhat appalled, in the
sunny garden, struggling with the banksia, decided that this was
not much to know of a person who might have the audacity to fall
in love with an exquisite and innocent Cherry. After all, she
would not be a little girl forever, some man would want to take
that little corn-coloured head and that delicious little pink-clad
person away with him some day, to be his wife--

And suddenly Peter was torn by a stab of pure pain, and he stood
puzzled and sick, in the garden bed, wondering what was happening
to him.

"Listen--want a drink?" Alix asked, coming out with a tin dipper
that spilled a glittering sheet of water down on the thirsty
nasturtiums. "Rest a few minutes, Peter. Dad wanted a pole, and
Mr. Lloyd has gone up into the woods to cut one."

"And where's Cherry?" Peter asked, drinking deep.

"She went along--just up in the woods here!" Alix answered. "Dad
had to answer the telephone, but they're going to yell if they
need help! WELL!" and Alix, panting, sat down on a log, "are we
going to do it?"