"Would you like me to give you something else to do?"

"No, ma'am, I'm quite happy, thank you!"

Not much in the words to remember, truly, but the tone and the
look went straight to Anne's close-guarded heart. Every time she
looked up at the mountain, rearing its dark crest above the little
valley, they had come back to her.

That was all several weeks ago, now. It was just after that
mountain picnic that Cherry had come home; on a Sunday, as it
chanced, that was her eighteenth birthday, and on which Martin and
his aunt were coming to dinner. Alix had marked the occasion by
wearing a loose velvet gown in which she fancied herself; Anne had
conscientiously decorated the table, had seen to it that there was
ice-cream, and chicken, and all the accessories that make a Sunday
dinner in the country a national institution. Cherry had done
nothing helpful.

On the contrary, she had disgraced herself and infuriated Hong by
deciding to make fudge the last minute. Hong had finally relegated
her to the laundry, and it was from this limbo that Martin,
laughing joyously, extricated her, when, sticky and repentant, she
had called for help. It was Martin who untied the checked brown
apron, disentangling from the strings the silky gold tendrils that
were blowing over Cherry's white neck, and Martin who opened the
door for her sugary fingers, and Martin who watched the flying
little figure out of sight with a prolonged "Whew-w-w!" of utter
astonishment. The child was a beauty.