“Yes, I’m scared—to death—now,” Helen went on, “because they’re going to cut it down. They’ve fixed the time and—day.”
“They’ve fixed the time—and day,” repeated Kate dully. “When?”
Her smile had completely gone now. Her dark eyes were fixed on her sister’s face with a curious straining.
“Tuesday morning at—daybreak.”
“Tuesday—daybreak? Go on. Tell me some more.”
“There’s no more to tell, only—only there’s to be a ceremony. The whole village is going to turn out and assist. Mrs. Day is going to make an ad-dress. She said if she’d known there was a legend and curse to that pine she’s have had it down at the start of building the church. She’d have had it down ‘in the name of religion, honesty and righteousness’—those were her words—‘as a fitting tribute at the laying of the foundations of the new church.’ Again, in her own words, she said, ‘It’s presence in the valley is a cloud obscuring the sun of our civilization, a stumbling block to the progress of righteousness.’ And—and they all agreed that she was right—all of them.”
Kate was no longer looking at her sister. She was gazing out straight ahead of her. It is doubtful even if she had listened to the pronouncements of Mrs. John Day, with her self-satisfied dictatorship of the village social and religious affairs. She was thinking—thinking. And something almost like panic seemed suddenly to have taken hold of her.
“Tuesday—at daybreak,” she muttered. Then, in a moment, her eyes flashed, and she sprang from her chair. “Daybreak? Why, that—that’s practically Monday night! Do you hear? Monday night!”
Helen was on her feet in a moment.
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered.