It was a cool evening, and after dinner they all gathered about the fire; Martin and Cherry murmuring together in the ingle seat, and the others only occasionally drawing them into the general conversation.  Peter and the Norths had come in for coffee, Mrs. North giving Cherry a maternal kiss as she greeted her.  Alix thought that she had never seen her sister look so pretty; Cherry was wearing a new dress, of golden-brown corduroy velvet, with a deep collar and cuffs of old embroidery that had belonged to her mother.  Her silk stockings were brown, and her russet slippers finished with square silver buckles.  But it was at the lovely face that Alix looked, the earnest, honest blue eyes, the peach-bloom of the young cheeks, and the drooping crown of shining hair.

Somehow, a few days later, wedding plans were in the air, and they were all taking it for granted that Cherry and Martin were to be married almost immediately; in October, in fact.  The doctor at first persisted that the event must wait until April, but Martin’s reasonable impatience, and Cherry’s plaintive “But why, Daddy?” were too much for him.  Why, indeed?  Cherry’s mother had been married at eighteen, when that mother’s husband was more than ten years older than Martin Lloyd was now.

“Would ye let it go on, Peter, eh?” the doctor asked, somewhat embarrassed, one evening when he and Peter were walking from the train in the late September twilight.

“Lord, don’t ask me!” Peter said, gruffly.  “I think she’s too young to marry any one—­but the mischief’s done now!  You can’t lock a girl in her room, and she’s the sort of girl that wouldn’t be convinced by that sort of argument if you did!”

“I think I’ll talk to her,” her father decided.  “Anything is better than having her make a mistake.  I think she’ll listen to me!” And a day or two later he called her into the study.  It was a quiet autumn morning, foggy yet warm, with a dewy, woody sweetness in the air.

“Before we decide this thing finally,” the doctor said, smiling into her bright face, “before Martin writes his people that it’s settled, I want to ask you to do something.  It’s something you won’t like to do, my little girl.  I want ye to wait a while—­wait a year!”

It was said.  He watched the brightness fade from her glowing face, she lowered her eyes, the line of her mouth grew firm.

“Wait until you’re twenty, dear.  That’s young enough.  I’ve been planning a full winter for you girls; I wanted to take a house in town, entertain a little, look up a few friends!  You trust me, Cherry.  I only ask you to take a little time—­to be sure, dear!”

Silence.  She shrugged faintly, blinked the downcast eyes as if tears stung them.

“I know you don’t like Martin, Dad!” she said, tremulously.