The disagreeable duty of announcing Mrs. Prettyman's death to the lady of the Manor now lay before Lavendar and his companion, and the thought of it weighed upon their spirits as they crossed the river. Carnaby also must be told. How would he take it? Robinette, still under the shock of the plum tree's undoing, expected perhaps some further exhibition of youthful callousness, but Lavendar knew better.

In their concern and sorrow, the young couple had forgotten all minor matters such as meals, and luncheon had long been over when they reached the house. They could see Mrs. de Tracy's figure in the drawing room as they passed the windows, occupying exactly her usual seat in her usual attitude. It was her hour for reading and disapproving of the daily paper.

Robinette and Lavendar entered quietly, but nothing in the gravity of their faces struck Mrs. de Tracy as strange.

"I have a disturbing piece of news to give you," Mark began, clearing his throat. "Mrs. Prettyman died last night in her cottage at Wittisham."

The erect figure in the widow's weeds remained motionless. Perhaps the old hand that lowered the newspaper trembled somewhat, so that its diamonds quivered a little more than usual.

"So Mrs. Prettyman is dead?" she said. Then, as the young people stood looking at her with an air of some expectancy, she added with a sour glance, "Do you expect me to be very much agitated by the news?"

"The death was unexpected," began Lavendar lamely.

"She was seventy-five; my age!" said Mrs. de Tracy with a wintry smile. "Is death at seventy-five so unexpected an event?"

Lavendar said nothing; he had nothing to say, and Robinette for the same reason was silent. She was gazing at her aunt, almost unconsciously, with a wondering look. "At any rate," continued Mrs. de Tracy, addressing her niece, "your _protegee_ has been fortunate in two ways, Robinette. She will neither be turned out of her cottage nor see the destruction of her plum tree. By the way--" with a perfectly natural change of tone, dismissing at once both Mrs. Prettyman and Death--"the plum tree _is_ down, I suppose? You saw it?"

"Very much down!" answered Lavendar. "And certainly we saw it! Carnaby does nothing by halves!"

A slight change, a kind of shade of softening, passed over Mrs. de Tracy's stern features, as the shadow of a summer cloud may pass over a rocky hill. She turned suddenly to Robinette. "Can you tell me on your word of honour that you had nothing to do with Carnaby's action; that you did not put it into his head to cut the plum tree down!"

"I?" exclaimed Robinette, scarlet with indignation. "_I?_ Why--do you want to know what I think of the action? I think it was perfectly brutal, and the boy who did it next door to a criminal! There!"

Mrs. de Tracy seemed convinced by the energy of this disclaimer. "I have always considered yours a very candid character," she observed with condescension. "I believe you when you say that you did not influence Carnaby in the matter, though I strongly suspected you before."

"Well, upon my word!" ejaculated Robinette when they had got out of the room, too completely baffled to be more original. "What does she mean? Has any one ever understood the workings of Aunt de Tracy's mind?"

"Don't come to me for any more explanations! I've done my best for my client!" cried Lavendar. "I give up my brief! I always told you Mrs. de Tracy's character was entirely singular."

"Let us hope so!" commented Robinette with energy. "I should be sorry for the world if it were plural!"

* * * * *

Carnaby was not in the house, and Lavendar proceeded to look for him out of doors. He knew the boy was often to be found in a high part of the grounds behind the garden, where he had some special resort of his own, and he went there first. The afternoon had clouded over, and a slight shower was falling, as Mark followed the wooded path leading up hill. A rock-garden bordered it, where ferns and flowers were growing, each one of which seemed to be contributing some special and delicate fragrance to the damp, warm air. The beech trees here had low and spreading branches which framed now and again exquisite glimpses of the river far below and the wooded hills beyond it.

Lavendar had not gone far when he found Carnaby, Carnaby intensely perturbed, walking up and down by himself.

"You don't need to tell me!" said the boy, with a quick and agitated gesture of the hand. "Bates told me. Old Mrs. Prettyman's dead!" His merry, square-set face was changed and looked actually haggard, and his eyes searched Lavendar's with an expression oddly different from their usual fearless and straightforward one. They seemed afraid. "Was it my grandmother's--was it our fault?" he asked. "I, I feel like a murderer. Upon my soul, I do!"

"Don't encourage morbid ideas, my dear fellow!" said Lavendar in a matter-of-fact tone. "There's trouble enough in the world without foolish exaggeration. Mrs. Prettyman was 'grave-ripe,' as she often said to your cousin; a very feeble old woman, whose time had come. The doctor's certificate will tell you how rheumatism had affected her heart, and the neighbours would very soon set your mind at rest by describing the number of times poor old Lizzie had nearly died before."

"Think of it, though!" said Carnaby with wondering eyes. "Think of her lying dead in the cottage while I hacked and hewed at the plum tree just outside! By Jove! it makes a fellow feel queer!" He shuddered. The picture he evoked was certainly a strange one enough: a strange picture in the moonlight of a night in spring; the doomed beauty of the blossoming tree, the blind, headstrong human energy working for its destruction, and Death over all, stealthy and strong!

"What an ass I was!" said Carnaby, summing up the situation in the only language in which he could express himself. "Sweating and stewing and hacking away--thinking myself so awfully clever! And all the time things ... things were being arranged in quite a different manner!"

"We are often made to feel our insignificance in ways like this," said Lavendar. "We are very small atoms, Carnaby, in the path of the great forces that sweep us on."

"I should rather think so!" assented the wondering boy. "And yet, can a fellow sit tight all the tim............