Her father was conscious of a pang; he had not even formed the thought in his own mind that Cherry was unhappy.  He was as trusting and as innocent as his daughters in many ways; he shrank from the unwelcome facts of life.  His own childhood had been hard and disciplinary, and at Cherry’s age he had been concerned only with realities, with the need of food and clothes and shelter.  That a life could be spoiled simply by contact with an unsympathetic personality was incomprehensible to him.  The child, he told himself, had a good husband, a home and health, and undeveloped resources within herself.  It was puzzling and painful to him to realize that there was needed something more—­and that that something was lacking.  He felt a sudden anger at Martin; why wasn’t Martin managing this affair!

“Mart doesn’t mention any time!” he mused.

“Thanks to you!” Cherry said, dimpling mischievously.  “He wrote quite firmly, just before Christmas,” she added, “but I told him that Dad had been such an angel and liked so much to have me here--” And Cherry’s smile was full of childish triumph.

“My dear,” her father said, spurred to sudden courage by a realization that the matter might easily become serious, “you mustn’t abuse his generosity.  Suppose you write that you’ll join him—­this is March—­suppose you say the first of April?”

Cherry flushed and looked down.  Her lips trembled.  There was a moment of unhappy silence.

“Very well, Dad,” she said in a low voice.  A second later she had jumped to her feet and vanished in the house.  Her father roamed the woods in wretched misgivings, coming in at lunch time to find her in her place, smiling, but traces of tears about her lovely eyes.

Nothing more was said for a day or two, and then Cherry read aloud to the family an affectionate letter in which Martin said that everything would be ready for her whenever she came now.

CHAPTER VII

The last day of March and of Cherry’s visit broke clear and blue, and with it spring seemed to have come on a rush of perfume and green beauty.  Days had been soft and warm before; this day was hot, and flushed with colour and splendour.  There were iris in the dewy grass under the oaks, but in the sunshine every trace of winter’s damp had disappeared.  Larks whirled up from the fields, and the bridal-wreath and syringa bushes were mounds of creamy bloom.

Alix and Cherry washed each other’s hair in the old fashion, and came trailing down with towels and combs to the garden.  The doctor joined them in the midst of their tossing and spreading, and sat smoking peacefully on the porch steps.

“Oh, heavens, how I love this sort of weather!” Alix exclaimed, flinging her brown mane backward, her tall figure slender in a faded kimono.  She sat down crosswise on her chair, locked her arms about its back, dropped her face on them, and yawned luxuriously.  “Dad and Peter,” she went on, suddenly sitting erect, “will get all this nice clean hair full of cigar smoke to-night, so what’s the use, anyway?”