“Not going?”

“Yes, I’m going now!” he said.

She rested her broom against the thick trunk of the old banksia, and rubbed her two hands together, and came to the top of the steps to say good-bye.  And standing there, under the rose tree, she linked her arm about it, looking up through the branches, where the shabby foliage of last year lingered.

“How fast it’s grown since that terrific pruning we gave it all that long time ago!” she said.

“Little more than six years ago, Cherry!” he reminded her.

“Only six years—­” She was obviously amazed.

“It doesn’t seem possible that all this has happened in six years!” she exclaimed.  “Those were wonderful old days, with Anne and Alix scolding you, and Dad here, looking out for us all,” she mused, tenderly.  “We’ll never be so happy again.”

He did not answer.  He had her hand now for farewells, and perhaps, with the thought of those short six years had come also the thought that this slender figure in the housewifely blue linen, this exquisite little head, so trim and demure despite all its rebel tendrils of gold, this lovely face, still the face of a child, with a child’s trusting, uplifted eyes, might have been his.  The old home might have been their home, and perhaps—­who knows, there might have been a new Cherry and a new Peter beginning to look eagerly out at life through the screen of the old rose vine.

Too late now.  A single instant of those lost years might have bought him all this, but there was no going back.  He put his arm about her, and kissed her forehead, and said:  “God bless you, Cherry!”

“God bless you, dear!” she answered, gravely.  She watched the tall figure, with its little limp, and with the dog leaping and circling about it in ecstasy, until the redwoods closed around, him.  Then she took up the broom again, and slowly and thoughtfully crossed the old porch, and shut the door.

Peter, walking with long strides, and with a furrowed brow and absent eyes, crossed the village, and climbed once more the old trail that led up to the cabin.  His great boots made simple work of the muddy roads, his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his shabby old coat, and his cap pulled low.  The rain had stopped, but every branch that hung down over his path, or stretched an arm to stop him, was charged with water; the creeks were swollen and yellow, and raced along between crumbling banks with a fresh rushing sound that mingled with the creaking of wet boughs and the wild spring chant of the wind high up in the tops of the redwoods.

Coming out of the forest, on the ridge, where the dim road ran under the scattered oaks, he saw the last of the battle of the dying storm raging over the valley below.  Great masses of cloud were in travail; when the sun was hidden, the world was wrapped in shade and chill; when it burst forth, every wet tree and spear glistened and twinkled in the flood of warmth and light, the dried brown grass sparkled with jewels, and the great roadside rain pools flashed back the azure of the sky.  The mountain was partly obscured by rapidly shifting masses of mist; the air was pungent and seemed to hum with a thousand tiny, electric voices.