“You’ll want to grade it down there,” she heard a strange voice say, “and fill in that little hollow; clear away all those rubbishy posies, and mass your flowering shrubs in the background. Those roses are no particular good, I fancy; we’ll move such as are worth anything, and make a rose-bed on the south side--we’ll talk over the varieties you want, later. Of course these apple-trees and those lilacs will be cut down, and this summerhouse will be out of the way. You’ll be surprised-- a few changes will do wonders, and--”
He stopped abruptly. A woman, tall, flushed, and angry-eyed, stood before him in the path. She opened her lips, but no sound came--Mr. Hazelton was lifting his hat. The flush faded, and her eyes closed as though to shut out some painful sight; then she bowed her head with a proud gesture, and sped along the way to the house.
Once inside, she threw herself, sobbing, upon the bed. Tabitha found her there an hour later.
“You poor dear--they’ve gone now,” she comforted.
Rachel raised her head.
“They’re going to cut down everything--every single thing!” she gasped.
“I know it,” choked Tabitha, “and they’re going to tear out lots of doors inside, and build in windows and things. Oh, Rachel,--what shall we do?”
“I don’t know, oh, I don’t know!” moaned the woman on the bed, diving into the pillows and hugging them close to her head.
“We--we might give up selling--he said we could if we wanted to.”
“But there’s Ralph!”