"Don't start pityin' me," she said abruptly. "I did it--an' I did it with my eyes open. An' now that I've told you"--she put her fingers to her lips--"don't muss everything. You got that out o' me when I--I forgot myself."
She spoke impatiently, but Cherry hurried to reassure her.
"When it comes to that," Anne replied, "there's nobody like your own self. Still--I'm goin' to count on you--not a word."
That night was the longest night Cherry McBain had ever known. So many questions chased each other through her mind that sleep was impossible. She felt herself the plaything of a score of different forces, at the mercy of cross-currents over which she had no control and against which it was useless for her to battle.
One thing especially troubled her. Should she have told Anne all she knew about McCartney? She had hesitated because her father was so vitally involved. Besides, she didn't know what plans were in King's mind. When the first grey of the dawn came through her window she had come to a decision: she would tell Anne all about it in the morning.
When they were alone together after they had eaten their breakfast, Cherry summoned all her courage and began her story. Anne stopped her before she had spoken a dozen words.
"You're not tellin' me a thing I don't know," she said. "Didn't I say I was here to keep Bill McCartney from playin' the damn fool? Well, he'll do that in spite of me--but I'm not goin' to let him make as big a fool of others as he has of me. Let's go and look at the horses."
Early that afternoon King arrived, and Anne went back to town with him. Cherry stood on the trail at the end of the pathway leading from the cabin, and watched them until they were out of sight. She was on the point of turning back again to the cabin when she caught sight of her father coming towards her.
"Well, girl," said Keith McBain when he had joined her, "the work's over. We begin moving the outfit to-morrow."
Cherry had been expecting the announcement every day for the past week, but when it actually came at last it found her sad in the thought of leaving the spot where all that had ever mattered much in her life--save the death of her mother--had occurred.
"I can get ready any time, father," she replied. "But--I'll hate to leave my trees--and my cabin--and my hills."