Elizabeth dared not pause an instant for reflection; she opened the door, walked downstairs, through the library, and joined her husband on the lawn.

He turned at her approach. She felt a mad sort of courage nerve her—she could speak now.

"What, planning against the great cypress?" she asked, and even in that moment of supreme agony and fear she was conscious of vague wonder at the composure of her voice.

"It seems to be dying," replied Mellen; "I am going to have the earth dug away from about the roots."

"I am afraid you will only kill it," returned Elizabeth; "it is so late in the season."

"I did not know that you were a gardener," he said, coldly.

He looked at her standing there with that unnatural brightness on her cheeks, that wild glitter in her eyes, and it seemed to him that she had only come out in her beauty and unconcern, to mock him after the long night of wild trouble which he had spent.

"I know that is what Jones said," she went on. "He thought in the spring something could be done, but not now."

He was turning away—that action deprived her of all self-control—she caught his arm, crying:

"Don't touch that tree—don't go near it."

He stopped and looked at her in blank amazement; she saw the danger in which her impetuosity had placed her—dropped his arm and tried to appear composed again.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "The tree is not a human being that I am going to assassinate."

She forced herself to laugh; even then the woman's self-mastery was something astounding.

"I was a little theatrical," she said; "but I can't bear to have the old tree touched."

"Why, marm, it'll die if it ain't," put in Jarvis, who considered that he had been silent quite long enough.

"You don't know anything about the matter!" cried Elizabeth, sharply.

The old man drew himself up, and looked so indignant that she felt sure he would oppose her now with might and main.

"I mean," she added, "you don't know how I feel about it, I want the poor thing left alone."

The old man relinquished his erect attitude and looked somewhat mollified.

"If it's yer whim, marm, that's another thing, but I thought I'd lived too long in this neighborhood for anybody to accuse me of not knowing a thing when I pretended to, especially about trees."

"Oh, no, no," interrupted she; "I always knew that you were a universal genius, a better gardener than half the professed ones."

"Wal, I don't know about that," said Jarvis, his face beaming all over with satisfaction, for the old man was peculiarly susceptible to flattery.

"Then you won't touch the tree?" cried Elizabeth, turning again towards her husband.

Mr. Mellen had been watching her while she talked; he was growing more and more angry now, thinking that she only wished to interfere unwarrantably with his plans.

"You will leave the tree till spring?" she continued.

"I shall have the earth loosened," he answered, "I don't choose to sacrifice the tree to a mere caprice."

"It is not a caprice," she exclaimed, forgetting herself once more. "I ask you not to touch it—I beg you not to touch it!"

"Might I ask the reason of your extraordinary conduct?" he began; then remembering old Benson's presence, checked himself quickly.

"I think it the best thing for the tree," he added.

"But Jones did not think so, and he ought to know."

"I fancy he said that to avoid the work."

"No, no! In the spring you can do it—not now—not now."

"By spring it will be too late; the earth must be dug away now."

She clasped her hands under her shawl, resolved to make one effort more—a respite must be found—for a day, at least.

She looked out toward the tree—the lower part of it was hidden, where they stood, by a thicket of shrubs and bushes, but the stately top towered up dark and solemn, waving in the morning breeze and seeming to whisper an omen of dread to her half maddened senses.

"Not to-day," she exclaimed; "at least do not touch it to-day."

His suspicious mind, so wildly on the alert since the strange events of the past week, was now fully aroused by the singular earnestness and trouble of her manner.

There was another secret! It was no desire to contradict him which actuated her—there was something at the bottom which he could not understand—a new phase of the mystery with which he had felt himself surrounded from the first moment of his arrival, and which had gathered and darkened so rapidly during the past week.

"Leave the tree at least to-day," pleaded Elizabeth.

"I can't send for Jarvis and put him off without a reason," he said; "he has plenty of work on his hands."

"It can't make no difference, Miss Mellen," the old man joined in; "'tain't no use to put it off—anyhow I couldn't come again till the last of the week."

"Let it go till then," she said, eagerly; and new life stole over her face at the bare hope of obtaining that delay.

"This is sheer folly," said her husband. "Go in—go in. You will catch cold—the grass is damp. Come, Jarvis, get your spade."

"It won't hurt the tree a spec, Miss Mellen," said he; "don't feel oneasy about it—I'll be as tender of it as if it was a baby."

He moved away as he spoke, and left the husband and wife together. Elizabeth was pale even through her artificial bloom—no matter what he thought, she must obtain some delay.

"Grantley," she cried, "don't touch the tree—I ask it as a favor—you will not refuse—let it stand as it is."

He gave one look at her face and turned his head away to hide the expression of anger and doubt which crept over his own.

"Can you give any reason?"

"No, no! It is one of my fancies—only gratify it—let the tree alone for a day or two at least."

Fierce passion shook Mellen like a sudden tempest. His first impulse was to drag her into the house and force from her lips the secret and the mystery which surrounded her, but he controlled the impulse and answered:

"As you please. I will leave it for the present."

With this curt concession Mellen walked away, and Elizabeth went back into the house. She paused to rest a few moments in the library; her limbs were shaking so violently that they refused to support her. She was roused by the sound of her husband's voice in conversation with old Benson—he might come in and find her there.

She started up like a wounded animal that concentrates its dying strength in one wild effort for escape—hurried from the room and up the stairs into her own chamber.

Elsie was still lying on the sofa; she sprang up as Elizabeth entered.

"Will he leave it?" she cried. "Will he leave it?"

"Yes, he has promised."

Elizabeth sank in a chair, so broken down by agony that it might have softened the heart of her deadliest enemy could he have seen her then.

"Saved again!" cried Elsie. "Don't despair, Bessie—it will all end right."

"Saved!" repeated Elizabeth. "Have you thought what must be done before I can breathe again?"

Elsie gave a cry and hid her face.

"Be still!" said Elizabeth. "I will do it—be still!"

"Don't let me know—don't tell me—I should die of fright!"

"Think of me, then," she returned. "In the night—alone with that——what can I do?"

Elsie interrupted her with another cry and her old appealing wail.

"You are killing me! You are killing me!"

"Be still," repeated Elizabeth, in the same awful voice. "Be still!"