that the boys had been quarrelling. Later, when they came stamping into the house, she was convinced of it. Fire smouldered in the eyes of John, and James had an ominous air of restraint under his quiet manner. Both tried to hide the dispute from her. But at last, when supper was over, John's fury burst forth. "He's tryin' to stop me from cuttin' down the copper beech in the north meadow, Ma." Mrs. Trimmer looked up in sudden alarm. "Not the beech in the ghostways, son? I wouldn't want it touched. Your Pa had a hankering after that tree. It was most his favorite on the whole place. And when he died, right under it almost I think we better leave it be, son." "I ought of knowed you'd side with him." John jerked his head toward James contemptuously. "A lot of old woman's nonsense about the ghostways. I figure we can't allow silly sentiment and superstition to interfere when we need wood." "But, son"-Mrs. Trimmer made her voice placating as she saw the dark look deepen "surely there's lots of other trees on the farm. That copper beech is an odd tree. They don't grow in these parts natural like. Your Pa was right proud of it. Every spring he used to watch it; light gold its leaves are at first and then bronzing with the sun, and the leaves that thick you can't see the sky when you're under it. And when you're out in the field and look at it, shining like copper against the blue sky, it has such a grand shape and all. It's got a kind of character, that tree. I'd hate to see it go, son." John's face hardened. Anger kindled hotly in his brown eyes. "I reckon it throws a powerful lot of shade and I plan to plant the north meadow come spring. The tree has got to go." James faced his mother, his chin square, his mouth determined. "It's your farm, Ma. Tell him he can't take the tree down." "That's just like you, always skulking behind a woman's skirts," shouted John. "You count on her always taking your part, but this time it won't do any good." "Son, son!" Mrs. Trimmer tried vainly to quiet him. "He's a sneak, Ma. That's what he is. He tries to make you believe he wants the tree saved on account of Pa. He says it is a kind of epitaph to him. But that ain't the reason at all. It's on account of Gail and a lot of sentiment about sitting under it last summer. Damn foolishness, I call it, and I'm going to cut down the tree." James came forward. He was white and tense. He stood quietly in front of John. "One of the reasons I want it left is on account of Gail, then, if you want to know. She loves the copper beech and so did Pa and so does Ma. And that's why you want it down. You're mad jealous of her and me. But that tree is noble and it's got a right to live." Withering scorn from John. "Next you'll be saying it's got a soul. The copper beech is no more noble than the hickory we chopped this fall. I notice you don't mind letting that keep you warm." "Boys," Mrs. Trimmer beseeched. "Stop your quarrelling and go to bed. You're both petered out. Things will look different to you in the morning." "They won't look different to me." John's face was dark with fury. "I don't like to go against you, Ma, but there's got to be a man in this family to carry on the farm work. I'm goin' to cut down that copper beech as soon as it comes light." Grimly determined, he turned and stamped up the crooked little stairs to the floor above. James looked at his mother with misery in his eyes. He wanted to tell her he was sorry they had quarrelled. He wanted to tell her about the beech, how he had loved it all his life. Most of all he wanted to tell her about Gail. But he had broken through into speech once that night and could not bring himself to speak again. His eyes besought her. Then he turned toward the stairs. "Good night, Ma." "Good night, son." Old Mrs. Trimmer sat on by the fire. It was very quiet. Every now and then there was a little hiss as the steam from the kettle condensed on its bright surface and dropped to the stove. Comfort came and rubbed against her knees. Comfort had seen the boys grow up, too. Mrs. Trimmer sat on in the quiet. She was thinking about the beech-tree. John had said that they would be saying it had a soul next. It was funny he should think of that, because she did think it had a soul-almost. She remembered in the first rapture of their marriage how she and that other John used to go and sit underneath it in the long summer twilights. The tree would shake down the moonlight upon them through its leaves like golden rain. Love was a glory then, and she would forget John's black rages and they would both be fathoms deep in the golden glamour of the moon. She could see the tree, too, in winter rimed with frost, shining with icicles as gaily as a Christmas-tree. And in summer its bronzed green was a feathery fretwork against a blue sea of sky. It seemed to be a part of her, that tree. Strange how the years leaped by. A little while ago, and she and John found ecstasy beneath the tree. Now it was Gail and James. Life was a game of leap-frog. First it is your turn to jump. Then you must lend yourself for somebody else's turn. Perhaps, after all, John would not attempt to cut down the tree. By morning he would have forgotten all about it. Wearily, at last, she rose, put out the lamp, and made her way up-stairs. It must have been close to two o'clock when she awoke, burdened with a sense of disaster. At first in that twilight zone, between sleeping and waking, where one so often feels something ominous but cannot remember what it is, she sensed but could not think what disturbed her. Then she remembered the quarrel of James and John over the copper beech. She lay for a little while thinking what she would do. Knowing his father, knowing John, she was sure now that he would make good his threat. Suddenly it came to her that she could stop him. would hide away the saws and axes. They must be in the wood-shed, which was only a step from the kitchen door. She would carry them up here to her own room. John would never think of looking here. Still... She nestled down under the warm quilt. Was it really necessary? The house was bitter cold. The fire had been dead these many hours. She hated to cross to the woodshed. Everything was so eerie and weird in the hush of the night. Yet, there was a moon. And John would certainly get up at dawn. She knew the ugliness of his moods too well not to gauge them accurately. And the beechit had its roots within her. She couldn't let it go. It would take only a few minutes to hide the saw and axe. Then she would be back in bed, all warm and cosey again. She reached for her eiderdown wrapper and put it on. Then she reached for the matches and lighted a candle. She tried to move softly so that she wouldn't disturb the boys asleep on either side of the thin partitions of laths. But she shook so with the cold that she could scarcely control her hands. This was nonsense. She tried to think of something to direct her thoughts away from the chill. She looked at the wrapper and remembered she had bought it because it was red and it had looked so bright and warm that day in the store in Burlington. It seemed anything but warm now. The cold penetrated it as if it were gossamer. Trembling, she made her way to the stairs. As she passed the little diamondshaped window in the hall she glanced out. The shadows of the pines were pointing long, black fingers on the snow. There was no warmth in the hard glitter of the moonlight. It seemed to light up the coldness. Well, it would soon be spring now. Her knees trembled and her legs felt weak. She tried to think of the hot July sun on her poppy-bed. But she shook uncontrollably with cold. Then suddenly she tripped and was falling, falling interminably.. James was the first to reach her. He had been awakened by the sound of the fall. She was lying unconscious at the foot of the treacherous little stairway. Comfort, his back arched, his eyes frightened, was standing over her. After a She little while she opened her eyes. John was saying he would hitch up and go for the doctor. "It's no use, dear," she smiled weakly. "I know it isn't, and I'd rather have you stay here with me." And then, as if the purpose for which she had left her bed at that hour of the night had suddenly come to her, "Let this be the last quarrel, James and John," and added, as if the precedence might wound, "John and James." The next morning the doctor said she had broken her back in the fall. The copper beech was not mentioned again between the brothers. In the face of their great sorrow it dissolved into nothingness. They buried her in the little cemetery that spread in the lap of the valley. It was hard to dig a grave in the frozen earth. James kept wishing if only the spring had come, if only she could have seen the spring. He searched the marshy spots for pussy-willows, but there were none. He could find no flowers at all in this wintry land. There was no blossoming thing except the begonia on her kitchen window-sill. The afternoon of the funeral he brought the plant out to the cemetery and set it on the grave. But when he saw how the wind shrilled through the meagre blossoms, he took it up again. She had tended it so carefully. She would hate to have it shivering there in the cold. He put it under his hat, snug from the wind, and hurried it home. When he got back John was looking among the papers of the old desk in the sitting-room. James saw that his fingers were resting upon the battered savingsbank book that his mother had always kept hidden away. James went and sat in his mother's chair. Comfort came, as he always did, rubbing against James's legs, sympathizing, seeking solace. John spoke apologetically. "I thought it might be a good time to tend to these things, now that we are layin' off work for the afternoon." "I can't seem to get my mind on anything but her. I'm kind of struck dumb." James's voice was husky. "Somebody's got to have some common sense in a time like this. We'll want to get away out of here now, more than ever. Well, I've just seen that one of us has got to stay home." This statement at last penetrated James's bewilderment. "I thought there was money enough for college," he said. "Well, I am tellin' you there isn't enough for two." VOL. LXXXII.—49 To James this dream of medical college had been associated with his mother. As long as he could remember, they had planned on it together. And she had saved and saved. Now they were both gone, she and the dream. "It's the only thing in the world I want." He said it half to himself, but John heard him and started up eagerly. "Is it?" he said. "For sure, James?" James nodded his head in affirmation. "Well, then"-John went on more eagerly than ever-"you take the money and go. I'd as lief stay here. I'd rather, in fact. College doesn't mean so much to me. The only thing in the world I want is Gail." At the mention of Gail's name, James started up like a shot. "I wasn't thinking of Gail when I said that. That's different." John's eyes were getting dangerously bright. But he tried to speak gently. He didn't want to antagonize James. He would plead with him if necessary. His grief for his mother had made him hunger for Gail. He must drown his loss in her. She must give him surcease. While with James, the thought of love could not enter in. He felt it would be long before the natural joys, the happiness and abandon of love, could bubble up. The springs of his heart were as frozen as the ground. He had no mind for any thought except his mother. He was conscious of the fact, as if it were the experience of another man, that Gail and he loved. Some day, perhaps, that other man would enter into his kingdom, but now no, not now. He must explain to John, though, that his love was impossible. "It isn't the money, John. That hasn't anything to do with it. You can't buy me off. It's the way Gail and I feel. We love each other. It wouldn't do you any good for me to go away. At first I didn't know you cared, John, and then, after last summer, it was too late. I'm sorry, John." "Have you asked her?" John's voice was tense. "No, but I know, just the same." "Well, then, it isn't too late. All I ask is that you give me a chance. She liked me as well as you up to last summer. She might change again. You think her love is so wonderful, and yet you won't even let yourself out of her sight for a year or so. He spoke sneeringly. "I am not afraid of Gail. Gail won't change, ever." James said it proudly. "All right, but all I ask is a chance to try. I'll stick by whatever she decides. I never asked you anything before, James. I'll never ask you anything again. While I'm tryin,' you can go to college, and then if it's you she wants, you'll be all ready to start in." "I can't do it, John. You mean never to write to her or try to see her for two whole years? I can't do it." John's face was darkening in the old way. James, looking into his eyes, saw this matter of Gail was life and death to him. Well, it was to James, too. Gail was the future, Gail was everything. After all, though, John only asked for a test, a chance to try. Wasn't it only fair to give it to him? But he had had his chance. James had won her in fair competition. He had always played square with John. "You call yourself a brother. Yet you let this thing come between us," John said bitterly. Well, maybe John was right. Wouldn't it always come between them unless he put it to the test finally and for all time? And Gail-he wasn't afraid to trust Gail. He looked at John now. Already his eyes were ablaze with unreasoning anger. Even on this day of days. Suddenly, clearly, his mother's last words came to James: "Let this be the last quarrel, James and John... John and James.' "I'll go away, John," he said. Neither of the brothers thought of Gail. It was bitterly hard for her that first year. And public opinion in Middlebrook from the first was hard on James. He had drawn all the savings from the bank and had left John with nothing but rough work for a living. The unselfishness of John became glorified. He took on a new interest in the eyes of the community. And then there was Gail. Every one knew she and James had been sweethearts. Every one knew also, through young William Henry, the post-office clerk, that letters never came for Gail. They said Gail was eating her heart out for James. They said it was a burning shame. They said John was kind and was doing his best to make it up to her. They told each other how he drove her to and from Middlebrook, where she taught school, when the horses had been sick down at the Haskins farm. They told each other of little presents he was always buying for her at the village store. It's made a different man of him, they would say-he's that gentle. He'd make a good steady husband for her. He's a tiller of the soil, rooted in the community, not running off to distant cities after booklearning. And they took pains to communicate their ideas to Gail. But Gail was stanchly true to James. He had come to bid her good-by, strangely perhaps, but still he had come. He stopped by on his way to the station. He had barely time for his train, and he stood at the gate, not seeming even to desire the privacy of the parlor, where he might have kissed her good-by. He merely took her hand and said: "Whatever happens, Gail, remember I'll always feel just the same.' Then he was gone down the road. Why had he gone off like that? Why did he never write, never send an address that she might write? The problem was never out of Gail's mind. Sometimes she thought it with her heart. Time went on. Two springs now Gail had cut lilacs and brought them to Mrs. Trimmer's grave in the little cemetery spread in the lap of the valley. Still no word from James. Occasionally John had letters. He would tell her about them briefly. James was doing well in his studies. James had won a prize. Never any message for her. Of course, if there were, John would tell her. Then one day, longing overcame her pride. She asked. John seemed reluctant, but finally told her that her name had not been mentioned. The neighbors were fond of saying that Gail Haskins was lookin' kind of peaked these days. John tried making love to her, at first gently, then with growing ardor. The strain was beginning to tell on him, too. Gail didn't respond, and her indifference was fuel to his fire. He became obsessed with the thought of her. James had only promised to keep silence for two years. The time was nearly up. Then one day he had a letter. James was coming home. That evening he saw Gail in the north meadow. She was under the copper beech. The thought that any day James would return to claim her maddened John. He couldn't give her up now. James had been away from her all these months. He had probably forgotten how utterly desirable she was. John flung himself down beside her on the grass. It would seem that William Henry had told her about the letter. Again her longing conquered. Hesitatingly she inquired had James said anything about her. She had a bunch of trumpetflowers and she was busy fitting the long slender blossoms on her fingers like dunce-caps. Playfully she gave him her hand that he might shake the scarlet fingers. But he held it, crushing the soft fabric of the petals till he felt the warm skin beneath. Gail, pretending wrath at his heartlessness in crushing the flowers, tried to draw her hand away. But he held her wrist and one by one removed the tattered trumpets from her fingers. The blood rushed singing to his ears. She had asked if there were any message from James. Then she still cared for him. Or did she? Perhaps it was merely a friendly interest. She and James had always been friends. Suppose he were to tell her that James was coming home, that he might be here any day. That would be the test. He could be sure, then, from her face, whether she cared or not. With his eyes devouring her he blurted out the news. She made a little sound as if her breath were dying in her throat. Her face went white, back of the scarlet trumpetflowers. And then light leaped into her eyes. As plainly as if she had proclaimed it from the housetops, John knew she cared. He couldn't stand it. This quiet, abiding joy between her and James, this wasn't love. What did they know of the fires that tortured and consumed him? It came to him that, if love is like fire, then it can be communicated. If she could but feel his passion, hers might be lighted like a torch. And if love is like a fire, then this love of hers for James could be put out. It could be quenched. It was all so easy, and, after all, James couldn't care as he did. He tried to conceal his emotion under an elaborately casual tone. "I suppose it won't make any difference to you, Gail, whether James ever comes home-not after what he did." Gail looked up startled. "You mean about not writing?" she said. John looked away. He couldn't meet her eyes. It seemed as if it were some one else, outside and beyond him, who was doing this thing. But Gail thought he looked away to spare her feelings. Time stopped for her. What had James done? She must know. She urged John on. "Oh, well, it's nothin' very much," John said at last. "Only I couldn't see as how you would have much use for him, seein' he sold you out the way he did." "Sold me out? Whatever can you mean?" "It was the money," John went on in carefully patient tones. "He was dead set on goin' to college. He sort of knew I was crazy about you, Gail, and he offered to give you up if I'd buy him off with the money. I told him I couldn't do that. He could sell you if he wanted to, but I couldn't buy you. I said he could take the money if he wanted to. It was Ma's savings that she had starved and slaved for, and I couldn't touch it anyway. So he took the money and went. I always thought it was kind of hard on you, but I guess education meant more to him than a little summer foolishness. And I guess if he was that kind, you were well rid of him. I always tried to make it up to you, Gail, didn't I? Didn't I? I am mad about you, Gail, insane about you. I'd do anything for you." Everything had gone black for Gail. Could it be that she should be told this, here of all places, under the copper beech where they had sat in the glamour of the moon, cradled in ecstasy? And this James, who was almost a god to her, could he be a mercenary traitor? Why hadn't she known before? Why hadn't she guessed that this was what his silence meant? John could have told her long ago. But he was shielding James. John only told her now because he was afraid that to-morrow, when James came back, she would let him see the wound he had made upon her life. He was afraid the |