"I shall have the earth loosened," he answered, "I don't choose to sacrifice the tree to a mere caprice."
"It is not a caprice," she exclaimed, forgetting herself once more. "I ask you not to touch it—I beg you not to touch it!"
"Might I ask the reason of your extraordinary conduct?" he began; then remembering old Benson's presence, checked himself quickly.
"I think it the best thing for the tree," he added.
"But Jones did not think so, and he ought to know."
"I fancy he said that to avoid the work."
"No, no! In the spring you can do it—not now—not now."
"By spring it will be too late; the earth must be dug away now."
She clasped her hands under her shawl, resolved to make one effort more—a respite must be found—for a day, at least.
She looked out toward the tree—the lower part of it was hidden, where they stood, by a thicket of shrubs and bushes, but the stately top towered up dark and solemn, waving in the morning breeze and seeming to whisper an omen of dread to her half maddened senses.