With this he left her.  Left her to a burst of angry tears, at first, when she dropped her lovely little head on the blue gingham of her apron sleeve and cried bitterly.

The kettle began to sing on the stove, a bee came in and wandered about the hot kitchen; the grocer knocked, and Cherry let the big lout of a boy stare at her red eyes uncaring.

Then she went swiftly into the bedroom and began to pack and change.  She’d show Martin Lloyd—­she’d show Martin Lloyd!  She was going straight to Dad—­she’d take the—­take the—­

She frowned.  She had missed the nine o’clock train; she must wait for the train at half-past two.  Wait where?  Well, she could only wait here.  Very well, she would wait here.  She would not get Martin any lunch, and when he raged she would explain.

She finished her packing and put the house in order.  Then, in unaccustomed mid-morning leisure, she sank into a deep rocker, and began to read.  Quiet and shade and order reigned in the little house.  Outside in the shaded street the children went shouting home again; a fishman’s horn sounded.

Steps came bounding up to Cherry’s door; her heart began to beat; a knock sounded.  She got to her feet, puzzled; Martin did not knock.

It was Joe Robinson, his closest friend at the mine.  His handsome, big-featured face was full of concern.

“Say, listen, Mrs. Lloyd; Mart can’t get home to dinner,” said Joe.  “He don’t feel extra well—­he was in the engine room and he kinder—­he kinder—­”

“Fainted?” Cherry asked, sharply, turning a little pale.

“Well, kinder.  Lawson made him lay down,” Joe said.  “And he’s coming home when the wagon comes down, at three o’clock.  He says to tell you he’s fine!”

“Oh, thank you, Joe!” Cherry said.  She shut the door, feeling weak and frightened.  She flew to unpack her bag, hung up her hat and coat, darkened the bedroom and turned down the bed; waited anxiously for Mart’s return.  Mrs. Turner came in with the baby, a gentle, tired woman, with a face always radiant with joy.  Mrs. Turner had seven children, and had once told Cherry that she had never slept a night through since the first year of her marriage.  She never changed a baby’s gown or rolled a batch of cookies without a deep and genuine love for the task; she could not unbutton the twisted collar from a son’s small neck without drawing his freckled cheek to her hungry lips for a kiss, or ask one of her black-headed, bright-eyed daughters to hang up a dish towel without adding:  “You’re a darling help to your mother!”

The Turners lived next door to the Lloyds, in a shabby two-story house, and though Cherry and her neighbour spoke a different language, they had grown fond of each other.  Cherry had sometimes timidly touched upon the matter that was always troubling her, with the older woman.  But Mrs. Turner had little to say regarding her feeling for the lean, silent, somewhat unsuccessful man who was the head of her crowded household.  She seemed to take it for granted that he would sometimes be unreasonable.