And he refound her, when he had almost forgotten her. In those four long years, which stretch like a magic ocean between the island of boyhood and the misty coasts of early manhood, it is so easy to forget. Those years, between fifteen and nineteen, are the longest in life, perhaps.

They had been spent by Peter among books, watching, as in a wizard’s crystal, the dead world-builders at work; they had risen from their graves in the dusk of his imagination, stretched themselves, gathered strength and marched anew to the downfall of Troy and the conquest of befabled empires. How real those poignant religions were, telling of the loves of ruffianly gods for perishable earth-maidens—so real to him that he had paid little heed to the present.

In his outward life nothing had much altered; things were called by different names. They spoke of him as nearly a man now—servants addressed him as “sir”; they had never doubted that he was a boy once. Kay stood a few inches higher on her legs. Romance had retired from active business, leaving to her children the unthankful task of having kittens.

Just as Peter was said to be nearly a man and hadn’t changed, so the nursery was said to be his study, though it was almost the same in appearance. A student’s lamp had replaced the old gas-jet. Shelves, which had held fairy-tale volumes in which truth was depicted with a laughing countenance, now supported serious lexicons from which truth stared out with austerity. But his study retained reminders of those tremulous days when it was still a nursery, and hadn’t grown up—when it was the dreaming place of a girl whose arms were empty, in whose heart had begun to echo the patter of tiny footsteps. The tall guard stood before the fireplace, as though it feared that the long youth, who sat continually poring over a book with his eyes shaded by his hand, might shrink into the curly-headed urchin who hadn’t known that live coals burned. The laburnum still leant her arms upon the window-sill and tap-tap-tapped, shedding her golden tassels; she gazed in upon him with the same indiscretion as when he was a newcomer, with ungovernable arms and legs, who had to be tubbed night and morning. And she saw the same mother, who had sung him to sleep, peer in at the door on her way to bed, tiptoe across the threshold, ruffle his hair and whisper, “Peter, darling, you can’t learn everything between now and morning. Won’t you get some rest?”

He had exchanged tandem tricycles for lexicons as a means of locomotion to the land of adventure. His little sister could no longer accompany him; but the desire for wisdom had left room for the heart of tenderness. When his lamp shone solitary in the darkened house, he would straighten his shoulders and listen, fancying he heard the angel’s whistle.

In four months he was going up to Oxford, to live in gray cloisters where boys at once become men. His father shared his anticipation generously. “You’re going to recover my lost chances. Lucky chap!”

It was summer. He had risen early and sat by his study window reading the Iliad. The house was full of lazy morning sounds—bath-water running, breakfast being prepared, doors opening and shutting, footsteps on the stairs. Outside in the garden the sun dropped golden balls, which tumbled through the trees and rolled across the turf. Birds, hopping in and out the rose-bushes, were industriously foraging. Tripping up the gravel-path, with fresh-plucked flowers in her hands, he could see his little sister, her gold hair blowing. A tap fell upon his door. A maid, rustling in a starched dress, entered. “It’s just come, Master Peter.”

“For me? A telegram!”

He slit it open and read: “At Henley with ‘The Skylark! Can’t you come for Regatta? Cherry with me.”

Cherry with him! It was signed Lorenzo Arran. So he was keeping his promise! But why should Cherry be with him? And where had she been hiding all those long four years? So the Faun Man had taken his houseboat to Henley! It would be rather jolly to join him; but, after all, He ought to stick to his work. And this girl—did he want to see her?

The maid was waiting. A telegram at Topbury was a rarity in these days. It cost sixpence at the cheapest; therefore its use was restricted to the announcement of the extremes of joy and sorrow—births, deaths and financial losses. She showed relief when he looked up cheerily and said, “Tell the boy no answer.”

When she had gone he stood up, walked about the room excitedly and halted by the window. He wouldn’t go, of course; it would run his father into expense. Then, again he read the words, “Cherry with me.” It would be amusing to see her. He began to wonder—did she know that the Faun Man had sent for him? If she did——? His thoughts flew back across the years: he was in the Haunted Wood. The little river was singing, “Turn back, turn back, turn back.” He refused to turn back, and followed; suddenly, across the scrub-oak, he found himself gazing into the gray eyes of a girl. It was the grayness of her eyes and the whiteness of her feet that he remembered.

He leant over the table and closed the book with its unreal love-legends of gods and goddesses. “By Jove, but I’d like to go,” he said aloud.

The maid had spread the news of the unusual happening. As he entered the breakfast-room all eyes examined him. They waited for him to be communicative. At last his father said, “Had a telegram?”

Peter drew it from his pocket and passed it.

His father looked up. “‘Cherry with me.’ What does he mean by that?”

Peter raised his eyebrows, as much as to say “How can I tell?”

His father handed it back. “Are you going?”

“Costs money, and I’ve too much work.”

It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently, and glanced down the table at her husband. “It would do him good, Billy.”

“Yes, it would do you good,” his father said. “Why don’t you go, old chap?”

“Yes, why don’t you go?” Kay echoed.

His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat in his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought him. “Here, wait a second, Peter; I’ll walk with you to the end of the Terrace.” While walking he delivered his warning, “This man Arran—personally I like him and I know he’s your friend, but——. I’ve nothing against him, but he’s a queer fellow —clever as the dickens and all that. The fact is, curious tales are told about him—all of them too far-fetched to be true. You know the saying about no smoke without fire, well——. It may be that he’s only different; but he strikes people as being fast and dangerous. Be careful; I’d trust you anywhere. Have a good time. I’ve got it off my chest—my sermon’s ended.”

At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that Cat’s Meat’s master was not on the stand. He wouldn’t have hurt Mr. Grace’s feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking hansom. Cat’s Meat may have seen him; but Cat’s Meat couldn’t tell. Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl to Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry,” they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, now following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew up in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the train and the unbelievable greenness of the country—the glimpses of silver water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and died, and never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The girls in summer dresses—the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and the happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed out one word, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” He didn’t know even yet whether he wanted to see her.

The train achieved the surprise of the century—it arrived early. He examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun Man was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving. Picking up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them.

Streets were garish—flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, college blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and the fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up into men’s tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world was golden, seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. Walking down the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and a woman together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment.

As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women’s arms, and women caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed his lips against a man’s ear—a complete stranger—and shouted, “What is it?”

The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no more attention.

Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till his throat felt as if it had burst.

And now they were well in sight—two men with bent backs and arms that worked like levers, each seated in a machine as narrow as a needle, with long wooden legs which stuck out on either side, striding the water and keeping the balance. They looked like human egg-beaters gone mad. The river rose to its feet; the winning-post was nearing. The channel of free water seemed to narrow as skiffs, gigs, punts, dingeys and every kind of craft pressed closer to the booms which marked the course.

Something happened. Both men drooped inertly forward over trailing sculls. It was dramatic, this immediate transition from frantic energy to listless collapse. Hats were tossed up. Launches shrieked and whistled. Everyone tried to make more noise than his neighbor, Peter with the rest. “Well rowed. Well rowed, sir. Well rowed.”

When the clamor had died down he turned to where the man had been standing. “Who won?” And then, “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

He was gazing into the amused face of a girl with gray eyes and brown-black hair, that swept like a cloud across a Clear white forehead.

“Who won! Roy Hardcastle, of course. England’s not beaten yet.”

He wasn’t thinking of England’s honor; the race—it had never happened. He was looking at her mouth. They called her Cherry, because her lips were red.

She was going from him. How straight she was! How slender! Like a slim spring flower—a narcissus, perhaps. He went after her and raised his hat. “Forgive me for speaking to you. Just a minute before a man was standing there, and—-”

“That’s all right,” she said; “I understand.”

Again she was on the point of leaving. He had to make certain. “Since I’ve been so rude already, would you mind if I asked you one more question?”

She looked him over casually and seemed more satisfied that she was willing to admit to anyone but herself. “Not at all.”

He straightened his necktie nervously. “Then, can you tell me where I’ll find The Skylark? It’s a house-boat belonging to Lorenzo Arran.”

She laughed softly and stood with her eyes cast down, tapping the pavement with her foot. He was sure now. She looked up. “Where have I seen you? Somehow you’re familiar. It’s annoying; you knew me in a flash.”

“You’re Cherry?”

“Only to a few of my dearest friends.”

He glanced away from her. “You were Cherry to me once for about an hour; you’ve been Cherry to me ever since then.”

There was a long pause. “And yet I don’t know you,” she said. “You must be the friend Mr. Arran was expecting down from London.”

Peter nodded.

“He and Harry went to meet you. You must have missed each other at the station. If you like, I’ll show you the way to The Skylark; I’m going there. They’ll be wondering whether you’ve come. We’d better hurry.”

“Oh, please not yet.”

“But why not?” she asked, puzzled.

“Because I’m—I don’t know. My pride’s touched that you don’t know me. Would you think it awfully cheeky if I were to ask you to come and have tea with me first?”

She opened her parasol, gaining time while she made her mind up; and then, “I’m game. I haven’t had much adventure lately. I’m just out of a convent school in France.”

He opened his eyes wide. “Ah, so that was it!”

They entered the Red Lion and walked through into the garden. They ordered tea at a small table from which they could see the river.

“Why did you say that?” she asked.

“What did I say?”

“You said, ‘Ah, so that was it!’ You opened your mouth so wide when you said it that I thought you’d gape your head off. When I was a little girl in America we had a colored cook with a decapitating smile—it nearly met at the back of her neck. Well, your ‘Ah’ was a decapitating ‘Ah.’ Now tell me?”

“Because I’ve waited four years to find out where you’ve been hiding.”

“Four years!” She tried to think back.

He leant his elbows on the table, his face between his hands. “Seems a long while, doesn’t it? In four years one can grow up. Last time we were together you made me a promise—you said we’d meet again often in the same place. I went there and went there—you didn’t keep your word.”

She laughed. “I suppose it’s a trifle too late to say I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to contradict that; when he didn’t she continued, “How much do you know about me? For instance, what’s my real name?”

He laughed in return. “You’ve got me there. All you told me was that people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.”

She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor by being loved. “Be a sportsman. You’re awfully tantalizing. Give me a pointer that’ll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are; it isn’t good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man.”

“Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day when you knocked down and walked over, oh, let’s say about twenty photographs of the same lady?”

“Do I remember!” She sniffed a little scornfully. “‘Tisn’t likely I’d forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent.”

She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with herself and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. She twisted round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders.

Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, “What an unfair punishment! That doesn’t sound like the Faun Man. But, perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?”

“Always praying,” she answered, with her shoulders still toward him. “And, look here, don’t you say that the Faun Man was unfair. He wasn’t. He didn’t send me away only for breaking his pictures.” And then, inconsequently, “If it wasn’t too childish I’d go and smash them all afresh.”

Suddenly she swung round, “I know who you are. Hurray! You’re Peter. You see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you why I remember?”

“Do. Do,” he urged.

The answer came promptly. “Because you paid me compliments. You thought that God said to Himself when He made me, ‘I’ll make the most beautiful person I’ve ever made.’—Hulloa! You don’t like that. It wasn’t quite what you expected. What did you expect? Until you tell me I won’t speak to you.”

Compelled by her silence, he confessed, “I did hope that you might have remembered me for something—something more romantic. You see, we met in the Haunted Wood, and there was the river, and you were going to drown yourself. You’d taken off your shoes and stockings as a first step, which was very economical of you. And I—I saw your feet, and——”

She waved her handkerchief at him, her eyes a-sparkle. “I know. I know. Very pretty and very foolish!” She rose. “We ought to be going.”

Outside the Red Lion, she turned toward the river; “I left my boat at one of the landings.”

When they had found it and he had helped her in, she said, “You can row, I suppose? All right, then, I’ll steer; you take the sculls.”

They drifted down with the stream, the gray bridge, spanning the river, growing more distant behind them; the wooded hills swimming up on every side to form a green cup, against which the sky stooped its lips. They floated by lazy craft, in which women lay back on cushions beneath sunshades and men with bare arms clasped about their knees watched them. Snatches of laughter reached them, to which the murmur of voices droned an accompaniment. On green lawns, beneath dreaming garden trees, little groups of brightly attired people clustered. From houseboats along the river-bank stole music, one air creeping into another as they passed, fashioning a medley—coon songs from America, Victorian ballads of sentiment, a wild scrap of Dvorak and the latest impertinence from London. Of all that they saw and heard, they alone were constant in the shifting landscape.

“After four years!” she murmured.

He stopped rowing and gazed at her wonderingly, repeating her words, “After four years!”

Then a familiar voice leapt out at them from a sky-blue house-boat, with sky-blue curtains fluttering in the windows and a rim of scarlet geraniums running round it in boxes. The voice lent the touch of humor to their tenderness, which saves sentiment from sadness and makes it ecstatic. It sang to the twinkling tones of a mandolin, struck sharply:

“Come, tickle me here;

For I ain’t what you thought me—

I ain’t so ‘igh and so ‘aughty, my dear.

But there’s right times for lovin’,

And cooin’ and dovin’,

And wrong ways of flirtin’

That’s woundin’ and hurtin’—

I’m a lydy, d’you hear?

But just under the neck,

Peck ever so softly—

I allow that, my dear.

Not my lips—you’re too near.

Come along, lovey; come along, duckie;

Tickle me, tickle me here.”