“If you must know everything, Tom, it’s for little Bess.”
“Not going to dig her grave?”
Tom could have bitten his tongue out—he was mad with himself for uttering such a question. It had bounced out of his mouth without thought, and now he saw the colour rush into Mary’s face, her eyes fill, and her lips tremble.
“Hang me for an idjot!” said Tom; “I didn’t mean it; it’s just like my ways, Poll. I want to say summut smart, and just say the wrong thing always. But what be you about wi’ them tools?”
“It’s this, Tom: I thought I’d give little Bessie a Christmas tree. I’ve got a few trifles to hang on it—some oranges and nuts and a needle-case and so; and I got Mrs. Wonnacott to come in for an hour and sit wi’ she whilst I went to the plantation after a tree; the squire gave me leave,” she added in explanation and self-exculpation.
“But, dear heart alive! you don’t want pick and spade for gettin’ up a young spruce! You want the chopper or a little handsaw.”
“I don’t wish to kill the tree. I thought if I get her up by the roots I could plant her again in the garden, and she’d grow up to a big tree, and it ’ud be something to look at—every year growin’ bigger.”
“What sized tree do you want?”
“Not such a terrible big one. Just middlin’ like. I can’t have her too small, as I ain’t got no tapers like the tiny red and yaller and green ’uns they had up to the Parsonage last Christmas. I’ve only got bits o’ common candle ends, and they’d be too heavy for a mite of a tree.”
“And how will you bring back your tree and the mores (roots), Mary, wi’ soil, and pick, and all together?”