A rush of tears choked her. She groped for a handkerchief, and
felt, as she had felt so many times, her father's handkerchief
pressed into her hand. The doctor sighed. There was nothing more
to be said.

So he gave Cherry a wedding check that made her dance with joy,
and there was no more seriousness. There were gowns, dinners,
theatre-parties, and presents; every day brought its new surprise
and new delight to Cherry. She had her cream-coloured rajah silk,
but her sister and cousin persuaded her to be married in white,
and it was their hands that dressed the first bride when the great
day came, and fastened over her corn-coloured hair her mother's
lace veil.

It was a day of soft sweetness, not too brightly summery, but warm
and still under the trees. Until ten o'clock the mountain and the
tops of the redwoods were tangled in scarfs of white fog, then the
mellow sunlight pierced it with sudden spectacular brightening and
lifting.

The little brown house was full of flowers and laughter and coming
and going. Anne and Alix, flushed and excited in their
bridesmaids' gowns, were nervous and tired. They had made lists
and addressed envelopes, had decorated the house, had talked to
milliners and florists and caterers and dressmakers, had packed
and repacked Cherry's trunk and boxes. Cherry was tired and
excited, too, but had no realization of it; she was carried along
upon a roseate cloud of happiness and excitement.

Martin's mother and stepfather had come down from Portland, and