Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from the bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence was more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a summer's evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up, blew through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water's surface. She lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear her voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river. Sometimes she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the punt that separated them. When he wasn't looking she gazed more intently at his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the sleeves rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes catch hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The waterway was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes. “Your mother,” he stopped punting and turned at the sound of her high, clear voice; “your mother didn't like me. You may tell her that she needn't be frightened.” What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. “Not like you, little Cherry! No one could help----.” “Oh, yes. She didn't like me.” She raised herself on her elbow. “And she was right. Won't you please stop caring for me; then we can be friends. She saw what I told you from the first: that I'm not your sort--quite different, Peter.” He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall, green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her intently. “Stop caring for you!” He laughed shortly. “As though I could--the matter's out of my hands. I never had a chance not to care for you. If I didn't believe that a day was coming when--when you'd be kinder to me, Cherry, I'd not want to go any further--I mean with living. I'm not good at saying things in words; you're everything to me.” She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. “It's terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You've no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your happiness.” “But if I don't mind? If I'm willing to take my chance?” She lifted up her face appealingly. “Then it isn't fair to me, Peter. You force me to become responsible. It isn't that I don't like you. I admire you; that isn't love. You don't know your own mind yet; there are heaps and heaps of better girls.--And then, there's Lorie. I tell you, Peter, I'm not your sort--please, please stop caring for me.”