t allude to it before his grandmother.

No one had heard her. The meal dragged on. Robinette and Lavendar
talked little. Miss Smeardon was preoccupied with the sufferings and
the moods of Rupert. Mrs. de Tracy alone seemed in better spirits than
usual; she was talkative and even balmy.

"The work at the spinney begins to-day," she observed complacently,
addressing herself to Lavendar and alluding to the rooting up of an
old copse and the planting of a new one--an improvement she had long
planned, though hitherto in vain. "The young trees have arrived."

"But where is the money to come from?" enquired Carnaby suddenly, in
a sepulchral tone. (His voice was at the disagreeable breaking stage,
an agony and a shame to himself and always a surprise to others.) His
grandmother stared: the others, too, looked in astonishment at the
boy's red face.

"I thought it had all been explained to you, Carnaby," said Mrs. de
Tracy, "but you take so little interest in the estate that I suppose
what you have been told went in at one ear and out at the other, as
usual! It is the sale of land at Wittisham which makes these
improvements possible, advantages drawn from a painful necessity," and
the iron woman almost sighed.

"There won't be any sale of land at Wittisham,--at least, not of Mrs.
Prettyman's cottage," said Carnaby abruptly.

"It is practically settled. The transfers only remain to be signed;
you know that, Carnaby," said Lavendar curtly. He did not wish the
vexed question to be raised again at a meal.

"It _was_ practically settled--but it's all off now," said the boy,
looking hard at his grandmother. "Waller R. A. won't want the place
any more. The bloomin' plum tree's gone--cut down. The bargain's off,
and old Mrs. Prettyman can stay on in her cottage as long as she
likes!"

There was a freezing silence, broken only by the stertorous breathing
of Rupert on Miss Smeardon's lap.

"Repeat, please, what you have just said, Carnaby," said his
grandmother with dangerous calmness, "and speak distinctly."

"I said that the cottage at Wittisham won't be sold because the plum
tree's gone," repeated Carnaby doggedly. "It's been cut down."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it." Carnaby raised his eyes. "I cut it down myself," he
added, "this morning before daylight."

"Who put such a thing into your head?" Mrs. de Tracy's words were ice:
her glance of suspicion at Robinette, like the cold thrust of steel.
"Who told you to cu