"I just came for one branch of the blossom," Robinette said, "if it is not all withered. Yes, this is quite fresh still." She took a little spray he had found for her and stood holding it as she spoke. "Only yesterday it was all so lovely! Oh! Mr. Lavendar, I needn't cry for my old Nurse, I'm sure! How should I, after seeing her face? She had come to the end of her long life, and she was very tired, and now all that is forgotten, and she will never have a moment of vexation about her tree. I don't know why I should cry for her; but oh, how could Carnaby destroy that beautiful thing!"
"It was a genuine though mistaken act of conscience! You must not be too hard on Carnaby!" pleaded Lavendar. "He would not touch the money that was to come from the sale of Mrs. Prettyman's cottage under the circumstances, so it seemed best to him that the sale should not take place, and he prevented it in the directest and simplest way that occurred to him. It's like some of the things that men have done to please God, Mrs. Robin," Mark added, smiling, "and thought they were doing it, too! But Carnaby only wanted to please you!"
"To _please_ me!" exclaimed Robinette, looking round her at the ruin before them. "Oh dear!" she sighed, "how confusing the world is, at times! I am just going to take this snowy branch and lay it on Nurse's pillow. She so loved her tree! See; it's quite fresh and beautiful, and the dew still upon it, just like tears!"
"That seemed just right," said Robinette softly as she came out into the sunshine again, a few minutes later. "I laid the blossoms in her kind old tired hands, the hands that have known so much work and so many pains. It is over, and after all, her new home is better than any I could have found for her!"
The two walked slowly down the little garden on their way to the gate. As they passed, old Mr. Darke, who had hobbled around again to have another look at the fallen tree, addressed Lavendar solemnly.
"Best tree in Wittisham 'e was, sir," touching the ruin of the branches as he spoke. "'Ooever could ha' thought o' sich a piece of wickedness as to cut 'im down? Murder, I calls it! 'Tis well as Mrs. Prettyman be gone to 'er rest wi'out knowledge of it; 'twould 'ave broken her old 'eart, for certain sure!"