“And you can best do that by not trying to help! Your part is to divert your father, to love him and cheer him and entertain him. You know this, and you know for you to undertake to advise or suggest is not only ridiculous but disastrous.” “All right, mother, I’ll be good. I don’t mean to be silly.” “You are, when you assume ability you don’t possess.” Mrs. Wheeler’s loving smile robbed the words of any harsh effect. “Run along now, and see if dad won’t go for a walk with you; and don’t refer to anything unpleasant.” Maida went, and found Wheeler quite ready for a stroll “Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda. “Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,” dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’s dictum to avoid unpleasant subjects. But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturally reverted to the discussion of their recent guests. “Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is nice and well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw any one so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a common little piece! But underneath it all she showed a lot of good sense and I’m sure in her work she has real ability.” “Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “but why do you call him a curmudgeon? He’s very well-mannered.” “Oh, yes, he is. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure just what a curmudgeon is. But—he’s it, anyway.” “I gather you don’t especially admire my old friend.” “Friend! If he’s a friend—give me enemies!” “Fie, fie, Maida, what do you mean? Remember, he gave me my pardon.” “Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he worded that letter about the tree.” “I’ve told you a dozen times! He didn’t mean anything anyhow. He only said, that when the big sycamore tree went into Massachusetts I could go.” “What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?” “It was because we had been talking about the play of _Macbeth_. You remember, ’Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.” “Oh, yes, and then it did come—by a trick.” “Yes, the men came, carrying branches. We’d been talking about it, discussing some point, and then—it seemed clever, I suppose—to Appleby, and he wrote that about the sycamore.” “Meaning—never?” “Meaning never.” “But Birnam Wood did go.” “Only by a trick, and that would not work in this case. Why, are you thinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?” Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the whole tree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father, you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?” “Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’s being unable to see through your trick, and then—where are you?”