"I shan't deny it, Carnaby. I am so much in love with her at this moment that the room is whirling round and round and I can see two of you!" "Poor old Mark! Do you think she'll take you on?" "Can't say, Carnaby!" "You're a lucky beggar if she does; that's my opinion!" said the boy. "Put it as strong as you like, Carnaby," Lavendar answered. "You can't exaggerate my feelings on that subject!" "If you hadn't fifteen years' start of me I'd give you a run for your money!" exclaimed Carnaby with a daring look. XXIII DEATH AND LIFE While these incidents were taking place at the Manor House, village life at Wittisham had been stirring for hours. Thin blue threads of smoke were rising from the other cottages into the windless air: only from Nurse Prettyman's there was none. Duckie in the out-house quacked and gabbled as she had quacked and gabbled since the light began, yet no one came to let her out and feed her. The halfpenny jug of milk had been placed on the doorstep long ago, but Mrs. Prettyman had not yet opened the door to take it in. Outside in the garden, where the plum tree stood yesterday, there was now only a stump, hacked and denuded, and round about it a ruin of broken branches, leaves, and scattered blossoms. Over the wreck the bees were busy still, taking what they could of the honey that remained; and in the air was the strong odour of juicy green wood and torn bark. The children who brought the milk were the first to discover what had happened, and very soon the news spread amongst the other cottagers. Then came two neighbours to the scene, wondering and exclaiming. They went to the door, but Mrs. Prettyman did not answer their knock or their calling. Mrs. Darke looked in through the tiny window. "She be sleepin' that peaceful in 'er bed in there," she said, "it 'ud be a shame to wake 'er. She's deaf now, and belike she never 'eard the tree come down, 'ooever's done it. But I'll go and see after Duckie: she's makin' noise enough to rouse 'er, anyway." Then Duckie was released and fed and departed to gabble her wrongs to the other white ducks that were preening themselves amongst the deep green grass of the adjacent orchard. "You can 'ear that bird a mile away--she's never done talking!" said Mrs. Darke as the indignant gabble grew fainter in the distance. "But 'ere's my old man a-come to look at the plum tree. Wonder what he'll say to it? This be a queer job, sure enough!" Old Darke, on two sticks, hobbled towards the scene of desolation with grunts of mingled satisfaction and dismay. 'Twas a rare sensation, though a pity, to be sure! Mrs. Darke stood by the well at the turn of the road, keeping a sharp eye on the cottage while she gossiped with the neighbour who was filling her pitcher. She did not want to miss the sight of Mrs. Prettyman's face when she opened her door and found out what had happened.