Alix and Cherry shared a bare, woody-smelling room tucked away under brown eaves.  The walls were of raw pine, the latticed windows, in bungalow fashion, opened into the fragrant darkness of the night.  The beds were really bunks, and above her bunk each girl had an extra berth, for occasional guests.  There was scant prettiness in the room, and yet it was full of purity and charm.  The girls sat upon their beds while they were undressing, and plunged upon their knees on the bare pine floor and rested their elbows upon the faded patchwork quilts while they said their prayers.  Mill Valley was so healthful a little mountain village that among her two thousand residents there was only one doctor, the old man who sat by the fire downstairs, and he had formally retired from general practice.  The girls, like all their neighbours, were hardy, bred to cold baths, long walks, simple hours, and simple food.  In the soft Western climate they left their bedroom windows open the year round; they liked to wake to winter damp and fog, and go downstairs with blue finger-tips and chattering teeth, to warm themselves with breakfast and the fire.

So Alix said nothing when Cherry went to the window to-night, and knelt at it, looking out into the redwoods, and breathing the piney air.  In the silence of the little room the girls could hear a swollen creek rushing; rich, loamy odours drifted in from the forest that had been soaked with long April rains.  Cherry saw a streak of light under the door of Hong’s cabin, a hundred yards away; there was no moon, it was blackness unbroken under the trees.  The season was late, but the girls felt with a rush of delight that summer was with them at last; the air was soft and warm, and there was a general sense of being freed from the winter’s wetness and heaviness.

Alix rolled herself in a gray army blanket, and was asleep in some sixty seconds.  But Cherry felt that she was floating in seas of new joy and utter delight, and that she would never be sleepy again.

Downstairs Anne and the doctor sat staidly on, the man dreaming with a knotted forehead, the girl sewing.  Presently she ran a needle through her fine white work with seven tiny stitches, folded it, and put her thimble into a case that hung from her orderly workbag with a long ribbon.

“Wait a minute, Anne,” said the doctor, as she straightened herself to rise.  “This young Lloyd, now—­what do you think of him?”

She widened demure blue eyes.

“Should you be sorry if I—­liked him, Uncle Lee?” she smiled.

The old man rumpled his silver hair restlessly.

“No-o,” he said, a little ruefully.  “I suppose it’ll be some man some day, my dear.  I’ve been thinking—­even little Cherry seems to be growing up!”

Anne, who modelled her deportment somewhat upon the conduct of Esther in “Bleak House,” came to the hassock at his knee, and sat there, looking up at him with bright affection and respect.