“Oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap, as he made his way across the yard.
Then he came to another abrupt pause in his progress. He heard a sound, a strange sound, the sound of crying. He tiptoed closer to the door of the shop. Within sat Susan upon a low bench, her head bent low, her hands across her face. He could see her shoulders heave, he could hear the pitiful sound of her sobbing.
Gran’pap was in despair. He did not know what he should do, whether he should go forward or back. It was evident at least that his plan had not been successful.
“She’s never cried before,” said he.
Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard, still crying, and into the house.
“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the shop.
He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.
“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing this morning.”
Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.
“Susan!” said he.