“N-n-not as man and wife!” Cherry stammered.

Alix sat back on her heels, in the ungraceful fashion of her girlhood, and shrugged her shoulders.

“Think of the people who are worrying themselves sick over bills, or sick wives, or children to bring up!” she suggested, hopefully.  “My Lord, if you have enough money, and food, and are young, and well—!”

“Yes, but, Alix,” Cherry argued, eagerly, “I’m not well when I’m unhappy.  My heart is like lead all the time; I can’t seem to breathe!  People—­isn’t it possible that people are different about that?” she asked, timidly.

“I suppose they are!” Alix conceded, thoughtfully.  “Anyway, look at all the fusses in history,” she added, carelessly, “of Grande passions, and murders, and elopements, and the fate of nations—­ resting on just the fact that a man and woman hated each other too much, or loved each other too much!  There must be something in it that I don’t understand.  But what I do understand,” she added, after a moment, when Cherry, choked with emotion, was silent, “is that Dad would die of grief if he knew you were unhappy, that your life was all broken up in disappointment and bitterness!”

“But is that my fault!” Cherry exclaimed, with sudden tears.

Alix, after watching her for a troubled minute, went to her, and put her arm about her.  “Don’t cry, Cherry!” she pleaded, sorrowfully.

Cherry, regaining self-control, resumed her work silently, with an occasional, sudden sigh.  Alix, clapping the heavy covers of a leatherbound volume in Buck’s inquisitive nose, presently laughed gaily as he sneezed and pawed.

She had opened the subject with reluctance; now she realized that they had again reached a blank wall.

Three days after their talk in the moonlit garden Peter found chance to speak alone to Cherry.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Quite!” she said, raising blue eyes to his.

“What about your suitcase?”

“I took it into San Francisco yesterday; Alix went in early, and I followed at noon.  It’s checked in the ferry building, waiting.”

“It’s to-morrow then, Cherry!” he said.

“To-morrow!” He saw the colour ebb from her face as she echoed him.  This was already late afternoon; perhaps her thoughts raced ahead to to-morrow afternoon at this time when they two would be leaning on the rail of the little steamer, gazing out over the smooth, boundless blue of the Pacific, and alone in the world.

“To-morrow you will be mine!” he said.

“That’s all I think of,” she answered.  And now the colour came up in a splendid wave of flame, and the face that she turned toward his was radiant with proud surrender.

He told her the number of the dock; they discussed trains.

“We sail at eleven,” said Peter, “but I shall be there shortly after ten.  I’ll have the baggage on board, everything ready; you only have to cross the gangplank.  You have your baggage check; give it to me.”