understanding, or preference,” a profound secret, but this was impossible.  First one intimate friend and then another was allowed to gasp and exclaim over the news.  The time came when Anne decided that it was not “decent” not to let Martin’s aunt know of it, when all these other people knew.  Finally came a dinner to the Norths’, when Cherry’s health was drunk, and then the engagement presents began to come in.

“But it’s July now,” Cherry said, innocently, “and I think we were pretty smart to keep it a secret so long!  Don’t you, Dad?  And we’ve been engaged three months, now, so that it looks as if waiting wasn’t going to change our minds, doesn’t it?”

He could not chill her gay confidence; he had always spoiled her.  Her father only looked tenderly into the blue eyes, and tightened his big arm protectingly about the slender young shoulders.  But he was deeply depressed.  There seemed nothing to say.  Cherry was of age; she was sure of herself.  She was truly in love with this presentable young man.  Doctor Strickland felt that he did not know Martin—­the man to whom he gave his lovely daughter he would have hoped to know intimately for years.  There was nothing to be said against young Lloyd.  It was only—­mused the doctor, aghast—­only what was being done in the world every day.  But he was staggered by the bright readiness with which all of them—­Cherry, Martin, the other girls—­accepted the stupendous fact that Cherry was to be married.

She was quite frankly and delightedly discussing trousseau now, too entirely absorbed in her own happiness to see that the other girls had lives to live as well as she.  Did Anne mind if she divided her share of the silver from theirs; did Alix think she would ever want any of Mother’s lace?

“I got my cards yesterday,” she said one day, “I was passing the shop, and I thought I might as well!  The woman looked at me so queerly; she said:  ’Mrs. John Martin Lloyd.  Are these for your mother?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘they’re for me!’ I wish you could have seen her look.  Martin says in to-day’s letter that he thinks people will say I’m his daughter, and Alix—­he says that you are to come up to visit us, and we’re going to find you a fine husband!  Won’t it be funny to think of your visiting me!  Oh, and Anne—­did you see what Mrs. Fairfax sent me?  A great big glorious fur coat!  She said I would need it up there, and I guess I will!  It’s not new, you know; she says it isn’t the real present, but it can be cut down and it will look like new.”

And so on and on.  The other girls listened, sympathized, and rejoiced, but it was not always easy.  They could not get Cherry to be interested in any of their plans for week-end house-parties, climbs, or picnics; indeed, even to themselves their own lives seemed a trifle dull by contrast.

Anne, as usual, took her part in the summer activities of the village; she and Alix put on their white gowns and wide hats, and duly descended to strawberry fetes and church fairs and concerts, and duly laughed disarmingly when old friends expressed their pleasant suspicions of Cherry.