“Papa gets so mad if anything gets burned!” she would say, with her gentle laugh.  And once she added the information that her husband’s mother had been a wonderful manager.  “Men are that way!” was her comment upon the difficulties of other wives.  But once, when there was a wedding near by, Cherry, with others in the church, saw the tears in Mrs. Turner’s eyes as she watched the bride.  “Poor little innocent thing!” she had whispered with a tremulous smile.

She was deeply concerned over the news from Martin, and when Cherry had met his limp form at the front door, and had whisked him into a cool bed, and put chopped ice on the aching forehead, and gotten him, grateful and penitent, off to sleep, her neighbour came over again to whisper in the kitchen.

“He’s all right,” Cherry smiled.  “He was so glad to get to bed, and so appreciative!” she added in a motherly tone.

“You look as if you hadn’t a thing in the world to do!” the older housekeeper commented, glancing about the neat, quiet kitchen.

“I believe I like sick nursing!” Cherry smiled back.

For a day or two Martin stayed in bed and Cherry spoiled and petted him, and was praised and thanked for every step she took.  After that they took a little trip into the mountains near by, and Cherry sent Alix postcards that made her sister feel almost a pang of envy.

But then the routine began again, and the fearful heat of midsummer came, too.  Red Creek baked in a smother of dusty heat, the trees in the dry orchards, beside the dry roads, dropped circles of hot shadow on the clodded, rough earth.  Farms dozed under shimmering lines of dazzling air, and in the village, from ten o’clock until the afternoon began to wane, there was no stir.  Flies buzzed and settled on screen doors, the creek shrunk away between crumbling rocky banks, the butcher closed his shop, and milk soured in the bottles.

The Turners, and some other families, always camped together in the mountains during this season, and they were off when school closed, in an enviable state of ecstasy and anticipation.  Cherry had planned to join them, but an experimental week-end was enough.  The camp was in the cool woods, truly, but it was disorderly, swarming with children, the tents were small and hot, the whole settlement laughed and rioted and surged to and fro in a manner utterly foreign to her.  She returned, to tell Martin that it was “horribly common,” and weather the rest of the summer in Red Creek.

“Mrs. Turner is the only woman that I can stand,” said Cherry, “and she was always cooking, in an awful cooking shed, masses and masses of macaroni and stewed plums and biscuits—­and all of them laughing and saying, ‘Girlie, I guess you’ve got a hollow leg!’ Dearie, I couldn’t eat any more without busting!’ And sitting round that plank table—­”

Martin shouted with laughter at her, but he sympathized.  He had never cared particularly for the Turners; was perfectly willing to keep the friendship within bounds.