The mosses were dry, the flowers gone, weeds a foot high covered it.  She turned away and went on down the path until she was almost in sight of the cabin.

Mrs. Comstock smiled and waited in the arbour until it occurred to her that Elnora was a long time coming, so she went to the gate.  The road stretched away toward the Limberlost empty and lonely.  Then she knew that Elnora had gone into their own woods and would come in the back way.  She could not understand why the girl did not hurry to her with what she would have to tell.  She went out and wandered around the garden.  Then she stepped into the path and started along the way leading to the woods, past the pool now framed in a thick setting of yellow lilies.  Then she saw, and stopped, gasping for breath.  Her hands flew up and her lined face grew ghastly.  She stared at the sky and then at the prostrate girl figure.  Over and over she tried to speak, but only a dry breath came.  She turned and fled back to the garden.

In the familiar enclosure she gazed around her like a caged animal seeking escape.  The sun beat down on her bare head mercilessly, and mechanically she moved to the shade of a half-grown hickory tree that voluntarily had sprouted beside the milk house.  At her feet lay an axe with which she made kindlings for fires.  She stooped and picked it up.  The memory of that prone figure sobbing in the grass caught her with a renewed spasm.  She shut her eyes as if to close it out.  That made hearing so acute she felt certain she heard Elnora moaning beside the path.  The eyes flew open.  They looked straight at a few spindling tomato plants set too near the tree and stunted by its shade.  Mrs. Comstock whirled on the hickory and swung the axe.  Her hair shook down, her clothing became disarranged, in the heat the perspiration streamed, but stroke fell on stroke until the tree crashed over, grazing a corner of the milk house and smashing the garden fence on the east.

At the sound Elnora sprang to her feet and came running down the garden walk.  “Mother!” she cried.  “Mother!  What in the world are you doing?”

Mrs. Comstock wiped her ghastly face on her apron.  “I’ve laid out to cut that tree for years,” she said.  “It shades the beets in the morning, and the tomatoes in the afternoon!”

Elnora uttered one wild little cry and fled into her mother’s arms.  “Oh mother!” she sobbed.  “Will you ever forgive me?”

Mrs. Comstock’s arms swept together in a tight grip around Elnora.

“There isn’t a thing on God’s footstool from a to izzard I won’t forgive you, my precious girl!” she said.  “Tell mother what it is!”

Elnora lifted her wet face.  “He told me,” she panted, “just as soon as he decently could—­that second day he told me.  Almost all his life he’s been engaged to a girl at home.  He never cared anything about me.  He was only interested in the moths and growing strong.”

Mrs. Comstock’s arms tightened.  With a shaking hand she stroked the bright hair.