Cherry.

It was a brilliant morning, with spring already in the air.
Cherry, on the porch steps, was reading a letter from Martin. Her
father sat down beside her. She had on one of her old gowns, and
bathed in soft sunlight, looked eighteen again. Emerald grass was
already filming the ground about the house; from under the deep
rich brown of the forest flooring spring had thrust a million tiny
spears of green. The redwoods wore plushy plumes of blue new
foliage, and a wild lilac at the edge of the clearing drifted like
pale smoke against the dark woods. Everywhere life was soaking and
bursting after heavy rains; the very posts of the garden fence
were sprouting little feathery tips. The air was sweet and pungent
and damp and fresh, the sky high and blue, and across the granite
face of Tamalpais a last scarf of mist was floating.

"Well, what has Martin to say?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, he doesn't like it much!" Cherry said, making a little face.
"He describes the village as perfectly hopeless. He's moved into
the little house in E Street, and gotten two stoves up."

"And when does he want his girl?" her father pursued.

"He doesn't say," Cherry answered, innocently. "I think he is
really happier to have me here, where he knows I am well off!" she
said. "I know I am," she ended after a moment's thought.

Her father was conscious of a pang; he had not even formed the
thought in his own mind that Cherry was unhappy. He was as