Sophy let him take the basket from her and kiss her rain-wet cheek. She was glad that the rain came between her and that kiss. She could not say anything just at first—her quick running and the suddenness of his appearance had quite taken her breath for the moment.
"But you're sopping ... sopping!..." he kept repeating. He, too, could not think of anything more fitting to say. And Sophy began to murmur back:
"But you're getting wet, too ... what a shame!..."
They ran together towards the house. But now the rain ceased, and again the wind came—vicious, blatant. The big hedge of box just in front of them was a dark fury of tossing boughs.
"Oh, the trees!... I'm so afraid some of the trees will go down!..." said Sophy.
They ran on under the dark tunnel of box, and out upon the lawn. As they did so, Sophy gave a cry and halted.
"Look!" she gasped. "The big locust ... oh!... It's going ... it's going...."
She ran towards the middle of the lawn. Loring followed—caught her firmly by the arm.
"Wait...." he said. "Don't go any nearer...."
They stood dumbly watching the giant tree. It was fully a hundred feet high—a monarch shaft crowned with massive branches—wrapped python-like by a huge trumpet-vine. It was the last of its splendid generation—a royal tree. Now it rocked heavily—to and fro—farther and farther each way, each time—a groaning sound came from it. This sound splintered suddenly. It was like the bursting of a human groan into a shriek. The noble crown swept forward—majestically—as it were, deliberately at first—then faster, faster, in a sort of suicidal frenzy. The huge tree toppled, split at its middle fork—went crashing down, ripping loose the snaky folds of vine, shattering the trees next it. Their splintered tops shone suddenly raw and yellow against the grey sky. The remaining half of the fallen locust had a great "blaze" all down one side, as though it had been stripped by lightning. The inner wood, thus disclosed, all torn and riven, had something ghastly, like the revelation of a wound in living flesh.