Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed the tangled mass of branches.
"It looks so strange from here, doesn't it ?" she said.
"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned.

"I wish they didn't have to be cut.

I feel like a murderer,--every one I fall." She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must.

YOU would, of course.

But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose the tree minds so much, do you ?" "No; I don't suppose it feels it much." He laughed, and, throwing aside his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the world like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation which he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well.
"I like you for feeling that way about it, though," Betty Jo confessed with characteristic frankness.