Outside of the gate there was that elm I planted, and you promised to water while I was gone.

It is cut down now by the roots." "I had it done, Stephen." "I know.

Do you know why?
Because you love me: because you do not dare to think of me, you dare not trust yourself to look at the tree that I had planted." She started up with a cry, and stood there in the old way, her fingers catching at each other.
"It is cruel,--let me go!" "It is not cruel."-- He came up closer to her.--"You think you do not love me, and see what I have made you! Look at the torpor of this face,--the dead, frozen eyes! It is a 'nightmare death in life.' Good God, to think that I have done this! To think of the countless days of agony, the nights, the years of solitude that have brought her to this,--little Margret!" He paced the floor, slowly.

She sat down on a low stool, leaning her head on her hands.

The little figure, the bent head, the quivering chin brought up her childhood to him.