ir seat in the stern, was a pretty
girl in white.

"Why," said I, with perhaps a suspicion of relief, "I believe that is
Rosie."

Dickie, gripping the tiller hard, was staring as one in a trance. My
words roused him.

"Rosie? What Rosie?" said he.

"Why, the one who gave you the cherries."

"Is it?" asked Dickie, stoically. Then, with studied carelessness and
devilish abandon: "I say, old man, toss me a cigar, will you? I feel
like having a smoke."

After dinner I found Dickie in his room. There was a scent of burned
paper in the air and fresh ashes were in the grate. The mercury was
close to ninety.

"Chilly?" said I.

Dickie laughed unconvincingly. "No, just burning some old trash. Want
to take a tramp?"

I did. Was it chance or the immutable workings of fate which took us
in time past the house of the cherry tree? In a porch hammock was
Rosie, a vision of budding beauty only half clouded in flimsy lawn and
lace. Yet with never a turn of the head Dickie swaggered by, talking
meanwhile to me in tones meant to carry an idea of much
light-heartedness. Over my shoulder I noted that Rosie was standing
watching us, a puzzled look on her face.

"Dick!" It was rather a faint call, but loud enough to be heard.

"She's calling you," said I.

"Wait, Dickie!" This time there was an aggrieved, pleading note,
against which the stern Dickie was not proof.

"Well," said he, "I suppose I'd better see what she wants. Will you
wait?"

"No, I will go on slowly and you can catch up with me. Don't be long,
Dickie."

But a full hour later, when I returned, he was just starting. From
some distance up the road I could see them. On the veranda Rosie's
mother rocked and worked placidly away at something in her lap. Quite
sedately they walked down the path until a big hydrangea bush, studded
thickly with great clumps of blossoms, screened them from the house.
Then something occurred which told me that the boating incident and
the unanswered note had either been forgiven or forgotten. I dodged
out of sight behind a hedge. When I thought it safe to come out,
Dickie was swinging up the road toward me, whistling furiously.
Clawing my shoulder, he remarked: "Say, old man, what do you think of
her?"

"Think of whom?"

"Why, Rosie."

"Rosie! What Rosie? Oh, you mean the one who gave you the cherries?"

"Yes, of course. Say"--this impulsively in my ear--"she's the sweetest
girl alive."

"From what I saw just now," said I,