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"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 Robinetta_123. "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."
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"Ask me something else!" suggested Lavendar ironically.
There was a short pause. "I'm awfully sorry old Mrs. Prettyman's dead," Carnaby said in a very subdued tone. "I meant to do a lot for her, to try and make up for my grandmother's being such a beast." He stopped short, and to Lavendar's astonishment, his face worked, and two tears squeezed themselves out of his eyes and rolled over his round cheeks as they might have done over a baby's. "It's the j-jam I was thinking of," he sniffed. "Once a pal of mine and I were playing the fool in old Mrs. Prettyman's garden, pretending to steal the plums, and giving her duck bits of bread steeped in beer to make it s-squiffy (a duck can be just as drunk as a chap). She didn't mind a bit. She was a regular old brick, and gave us a jolly good tea and Related articles:

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