"Land of love! But I'm glad you've come, if she did call you long-legged: all the better for her now if you be. I hope she ain't fell by this time. Wonder where Father is. I never seen such a man; always gone when he's wanted. I declare it beats me where he gets to. It's enough to drive—"
"What is it, Mrs. Morris?" demanded Andrew, his heart misgiving him. "Can't I help?"
"'Deed you can! And to think of her calling you long-legged, and the very next day having to depend on you for her life, may be, or to save one of her own legs being broke—"
Mrs. Morris got no further. A little faint cry struck Andrew's ears, coming from the direction of the orchard.
"For heaven's sake, come on, and show me what's wrong," he cried. "Don't stand there palavering."
"Why, sakes alive! Don't you know? Miss Moore got up in a tree and—"
But by this time they were in the orchard. A glance explained the situation to Andrew.
High up on an apple-tree branch stood Miss Moore, clinging with both arms round a limb above her, her face white as death, her eyes dilated with fear. A ladder's head was within six inches of her feet. Andrew was up it in an instant. He knew the trouble. Only last year a hired man of his had ascended a tree to pick fruit. He was seized with this ague of dizzy fear, and flinging himself against a stout limb, had held on like grim death. It took two men to get him down; his terror made him clasp the tree convulsively. It was days before he was well again.
Miss Moore had evidently not seen him, nor heard his coming. As he slipped his arms about her, she gave a great start, and turned to look at him with eyes which seemed to expect some tangible shape of horror, evolved out of her illogical and intangible fear.
When she saw who it was, her eyes filled and her lips trembled.