"Just so," said a cheerful voice behind them; "a violin-box, and forgot to leave it. You see I had the jacketing of that birch tree so much on my mind," it was Dr. Silsby himself, "everything else slipped out. You remember my speaking of the birch tree, Rob?"
"At least seven times," answered Robert.
"Cruelty, Miss Barlow, positive cruelty. That fine silver-birch in the jailyard—you saw it, I suppose, coming in—all peeled and naked from the ground as high as my reach. Wanton cruelty. Think of the winter nights. It will die. It will die."
One of Jonas Silsby's eccentricities was his keen sympathy for arboreal life, to which his rugged nature yearned even more than to the delicate products of the flower garden.
"I complained to the sheriff. There ought to be an ordinance severely punishing the barking of trees."
"Don't they fine the boys who mutilate foliage in the parks?" asked Emily.
"Fine! Horsewhip them! Rattan their knuckles! I'd teach them a lesson or two! The young barbarians! Well, cut it short, thinking of the trees, I forgot your violin. So last night I ordered a jacket made, good canvas cloth, that'll interest you, Rob, if you haven't forgotten all your botany in your wild——"
"How did you like my essay, Jonas?" asked Robert, mischievously.
"Quackery! A poultice to cure incurable diseases. Bah!"
"But you brought the violin to-day?" asked Emily, smiling.