had asked Peter if he did not want to send Cherry a kiss, and he had said that his face was too dirty; he was moving geraniums.  And for all that day, whenever Cherry thought of Peter, it was with his hands and even his face spattered with the dark earth of the mountain garden.  The thought gave her a genuine thrill, and the next day she deliberately thought of him again, but the thrill was not so keen, and gradually she forgot him.

But the letter stayed in her thoughts, and she began to hunger for home.  Nothing that Red Creek could offer shook her yearning for the remembered sweetness and beauty of the redwoods, and the great shade of the mountain.  She wanted to spend a whole summer with Alix.

She was athirst for home, for old scenes and old friends and old emotions.  She had only to hint to Alix to receive a love letter containing a fervent invitation.  So it was settled.  With a sort of feverish brevity Cherry completed her arrangements; Martin was to use his own judgment in the matter of boarding or keeping the flat.  Some of their household goods were stored; Cherry told him that she would come down in September and manage all the details of settling afresh, but she knew that her secret hope was that she might never see Red Creek again.  It was all quickly arranged; perhaps he was not sorry to have her go, although he kissed her good-bye affectionately, and wandered away from the station in a rather lonely frame of mind when she was gone.

A friend of his had asked him to dine that same evening, “with a couple of queens.”  Martin had realized long ago, as Cherry did, that their marriage was not an entirely successful one, but he still considered her the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and had never desired any other.  But to-night he thought he would telephone King and perhaps dine with him—­the girls might be amusing.  Anyway, Cherry was happy and was having her own way, and he had three months in which to try having his own again.

Alix met her sister at the ferry in San Francisco on a soft May morning.  She was an oddly developed Alix, trim and tall, prettily gowned and veiled, laughing and crying with joy at seeing Cherry again.  Peter, she explained between kisses, had had to go to Los Angeles three days ago, had been expected home last night, and was not even aware yet that Cherry was definitely arriving.

“Of course he knew that you were coming, but not exactly when,” Alix said, as she guided the newcomer along the familiar ferry place on to the big bay steamer for Mill Valley.  Cherry drew back to exclaim, to marvel, to exult, at all the well-remembered sights and sounds and smells.

“Oh, Alix—­Market Street!” she exclaimed.  “And that smell of leather tanning, and that smell of bay water and of coffee!  And look—­that’s a cable-car!”

“We’ll come over to San Francisco soon, and you’ll see the new hotels,” Alix promised when they were seated on the upper deck, with the blue waters of the bay moving softly past them.  Cherry’s happy eyes followed a wheeling gull; she felt as if the world was suddenly sunshiny and simple and glorious again.  “But now, I thought the best thing was to get you home,” Alix went on, “and get you rested.”