Rose straightened herself and looked at him incredulously. “Do you mean it, father?” said she.
“'Ain't I jest said you might, if you wanted to?”
“Do you mean to have them come here and not pay, father?”
“There ain't no use tryin' to sell any of 'em,” replied Silas. “You can talk it over with your mother, an' do jest as you're a mind to about it, that's all. If you want to have a few of the young folks over here when them cherries are ripe, you can have four of them trees to pick off of. I ain't got no more to say about it.”
Silas turned in a peremptory and conclusive manner. Rose fairly gasped as she watched his stiff one-sided progress across the yard. The vague horror of the unusual stole over her. A new phase of her father's character stood between her and all her old memories like a supernatural presence. She left the rest of the linen in the basket and sought her mother in the house. “Mother!” she called out, in a cautious voice, as soon as she entered the kitchen. Mrs. Berry's face looked inquiringly out of the pantry, and Rose motioned her back, went in herself, and shut the door.
“What be you a-shuttin' the door for?” asked her mother, wonderingly.
“I don't know what has come over father.”
“What do you mean, Rose Berry? He 'ain't had another shock?”
“I'm dreadful afraid he's going to! I'm dreadful afraid something's going to happen to him!”
“I'd like to know what you mean?” Mrs. Berry was quite pale.