Gingerly she climbed into the tree, gingerly because Connie was not fond of scratches on her anatomy, and then began her task. It was a glorious morning. The birds, frightened away by the living scare-crow in the tree, perched in other, cherry-less trees around her and burst into derisive song. And Connie, light-hearted, free from care, in love with the whole wide world, sang, too, pausing only now and then to thrust a ripe cherry between her teeth. She did not hear the prolonged ringing of the front-door bell. She did not observe the young man in the most immaculate of white spring suits who came inquiringly around the house. But when the chattering of a saucy robin became annoying, she flung a cherry at him crossly. "Oh, chase yourself!" she cried. And nearly fell from her perch in dismay when a low voice from beneath said pleasantly: "I beg your pardon! Miss Starr?" Connie swallowed hard, to get the last cherry and the mortification out of her throat. "Yes," she said, noting the immaculate white spring suit, and the handsome shoes, and the costly Panama held so lightly in his hand. She knew the Panama was costly because they had wanted to buy one for her father's birthday, but decided not to. "I am Andrew Hedges," he explained, smiling sociably. Connie wilted completely at that. "Good night," she muttered with a vanishing mental picture of their lovely preparations the day previous. "I--mean good morning. I'm so glad to meet you. You--you're late, aren't you? I mean, aren't you ahead of yourself? At least, you didn't write, did you?" "No, I was not detained so long as I had anticipated, so I came right on. But I'm afraid I'm inconveniencing you." "Oh, not a bit, I'm quite comfortable," she assured him. "Auntie is gone just now, and the twins are away, too, but they'll all be back presently." She looked longingly at the house. "I'll have to come down, I suppose." "Let me help you," he offered eagerly. Connie in the incongruous clothes, with the little curls straying beneath the ragged ribbon, and with stains of cherry on her lips, looked more presentable than Connie knew. "Oh, I--" she hesitated, flushing. "Mr. Hedges," she cried imploringly, "will you just go around the corner until I get down. I look fearful." "Not a bit of it," he said. "Let me take the cherries." Connie helplessly passed them down to him, and saw him carefully depositing them on the ground. "Just give me your hand." And what could Connie do? She couldn't sternly order a millionaire's son to mosy around the house and mind his own business until she got some decent clothes on, though that was what she yearned to do. Instead she held out a slender hand, grimy and red, with a few ugly scratches here and there, and allowed herself to be helped ignominiously out from the sheltering branches into the garish light of day. She looked at him reproachfully. He never so much as smiled.