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?”

“We ought to go up and help Lloyd,” Peter decreed.  “Which way did he go?”

“I don’t know, darling!” Alix answered, leaning back, crossing her ankles, and yawning.  “But they’ll be back before you could get there.  They’ve been gone five minutes!”

Only five minutes, but they were enough to take Cherry and her lover out of sight of the house, enough to have him put his arm about her, and to have her raise her lips confidently, and yet shyly, again to his.  They kissed each other deeply, again and again.  The girl was a little confused and even a little uneasy as he continued the tight grip on his arm about her, and her upward look found his eyes close to her own.

Their talk was incoherent.  Cherry was still playing, coquetting and smiling, her words few, and Martin, having her so near, could only repeat the endearing phrases that attempted to express to her his love and fervour.

“You darling!  Do you know how I love you?  You darling—­you little exquisite beauty!  Do you love me—­do you love me?” Martin murmured, and Cherry answered breathlessly: 

“You know I do—­but you know I do!”

Presently he selected the sapling redwood, and brought it down with two blows of his axe.  The girl seated herself beside him, helped him strip the trunk, their hands constantly touching, the man once or twice delaying her for one more snatched and laughing kiss.

“But, Martin, you’ve been engaged before?” Cherry asked.

“Never—­on my honour!  But yes, I was once, too, years ago.  I want to tell you about that—­”

He told her, her grave face bent over the redwood boughs she was tearing.  She nodded, flushed, paled.  He had met this girl at his mother’s, do you see?  And she was a cute little thing, don’t you know?  Her name was Dorothy King, and when he went back to college she had promised to write, do you see?  But she hadn’t written for weeks, and then she had written to say that she was engaged to another man, a man named—­named—­he had forgotten the name.  But she had married him all right—–­

And Cherry looked up, laughing almost reproachfully.  How could he ever forget her married name!  Cherry said that she suspected that Martin hadn’t really cared, and he said no, but he had wanted to tell her about it all the same, because knowing her had made him want really to be honest—­and to be good—­