mean,
taking care of the woods.'

'And _that_ means,' added Rollo, 'an intimate knowledge of their
natures, and an affectionate care for their interests; a
sympathetic, loving, watchful insight and forecast.'

Wych Hazel gave him a little nod of approval.

'Don't you see, sir?' she went on eagerly. 'You _must_ have a
bent tree now and then, because it is twice as interesting as
the straight ones. And if you cut down all the bushes, Mr.
Falkirk, you will clear _me_ out,' she added, laughing up in his
face.

'You might grant her so much, Mr. Falkirk,' said the other
gentleman. 'A bent tree now and then; and all her namesakes.
Certainly they ought to stand.'

M. Falkirk's answer was to take a few steps to a large white
pine tree, and make a huge dash of white chalk upon its broad
bole. Then he stepped back to look again. Action was more in
his way than discussion to-day. Rollo began to get into the
spirit of the thing; and suggested and pointed out here and
there what ought to come down and what ought to be left, and
the reasons, with a quick, clear insight and decision to which
Mr. Falkirk invariably assented, and almost invariably in
silence. Deeper and deeper into the wood they worked their
way; where the shade lay dark upon the ferns and the air was
cool and spicy with fragrance, and then where the sunlight
came down and played at the trees' foot. For a while Wych
Hazel kept pace with their steps; advising, countermanding,
putting in her word generally. But by degrees she quitted the
marking work, and began to flit about by herself; plunging her
little fingers deep into moss beds, mimicking the squirrels,
and--after her old fashion--breaking out from time to time into
scraps of song. Now Mr. Falkirk's ears were delighted with the
ringing chorus:

'Wooed and married and a'--
'Wooed and married and a';
'Wasna she vera weel aff
'That was wooed, and married, and a'?

Then a complete hush seemed to betoken sudden recollection on
the singer's part; that was quite too private and confidential
a matter to be trilled out at the top of one's voice.
Presently again, slow and clear like the tinkle of a streamlet
down the rocks, came the words of Aileen Asthore:

'Even the way winds
'Come to my cave and sigh; they often bring
'Rose leaves upon their wing,
'To strew
'Over my earth, and leaves of violet blue;
'In sooth, leaves of all kinds.'

It was a very sweet kind of telegraphing; but the two
gentleme