“That seemed just right,” said Robinette softly as she came out into the sunshine again, a few minutes later. “I laid the blossoms in her kind old tired hands, the hands that have known so much work and so many pains. It is over, and after all, her new home is better than any I could have found for her!”
The two walked slowly down the little garden on their way to the gate. As they passed, old Mr. Darke, who had hobbled around again to have another look at the fallen tree, addressed Lavendar solemnly.
“Best tree in Wittisham ’e was, sir,” touching the ruin of the branches as he spoke. “’Ooever could ha’ thought o’ sich a piece of wickedness as to cut ’im down? Murder, I calls it! ’Tis well as Mrs. Prettyman be gone to ’er rest wi’out knowledge of it; ’twould ’ave broken her old ’eart, for certain sure!”
“It nearly breaks mine to see it now, Mr. Darke!” said Robinette in a trembling voice. But the old labourer bent down, moving 308 his creaking joints with difficulty and steadying himself upon his sticks till he could touch the stump of the tree with his rough but skilful hands. He pushed away the long grass that grew about the roots and looked up at Robinette with a wise old smile.
“’Tisn’t dead and done for yet, Missy, never fear!” he said. “Give ’im time; give ’im time! ’E’s cut above the graft––see! ’E’ll grow and shoot and bear blossom and fruit same as ever ’e did, given time. See to the fine stock of ’im; firm as a rock in the good ground! And the roots, they be sound and fresh. ’E’ll grow again, Missy; never you cry!”
Robinette looked so beautiful as she lifted her luminous eyes and parted lips to old Darke, and then turned to him with a gesture of hope and joy, that again Lavendar could hardly keep from avowing his love; but the remembrance of the old nurse’s still shape in the little cottage hushed the words that trembled on his lips.