“All right. I move her.”
“To-day?”
“Next vinter.”
“Now!”
“Um Gotteswillen! She dies sure. Next vinter or early sprink, maybe she has a chence, but to move her in summer—no!”
“Yes!”
“Nein doch!”
Bret choked with rage. “You move that tree to-day or you move yourself out of here.”
Gottlieb hesitated for a long while, but he felt that he was too old to be transplanted. Besides, that tree up there was none of his own children. He consented with as bad grace as possible. He moved the tree, grumbling, and doing his best for the poor thing. He took as large a ball of earth with the roots as he could manage, but he had to sever unnumbered tiny shoots, and the voyage down the mountain filled him with misgivings.
When Bret came home that night the two trees stood close together like Adam and Eve whitely saluting the sunset. Over them a great tulip-tree towered a hundred feet in air, and all aglow with its flowers like a titanic bridal bouquet. When the bedraggled Sheila came back with the played-out children she was immeasurably pleased with the thoughtfulness of the surprise.