and shouted, and torn leaves raced and fluttered through the air long before their usually appointed time.  Many a tree, after days of roaring and dancing, fell exhausted to the ground.  The cedar on the lawn gave up two limbs that fell upon successive days, at the same hour too—­just before dusk.  The wind often makes its most boisterous effort at that time, before it drops with the sun, and these two huge branches lay in dark ruin covering half the lawn.  They spread across it and towards the house.  They left an ugly gaping space upon the tree, so that the Lebanon looked unfinished, half destroyed, a monster shorn of its old-time comeliness and splendor.  Far more of the Forest was now visible than before; it peered through the breach of the broken defenses.  They could see from the windows of the house now—­especially from the drawing-room and bedroom windows—­straight out into the glades and depths beyond.

Mrs. Bittacy’s niece and nephew, who were staying on a visit at the time, enjoyed themselves immensely helping the gardeners carry off the fragments.  It took two days to do this, for Mr. Bittacy insisted on the branches being moved entire.  He would not allow them to be chopped; also, he would not consent to their use as firewood.  Under his superintendence the unwieldy masses were dragged to the edge of the garden and arranged upon the frontier line between the Forest and the lawn.  The children were delighted with the scheme.  They entered into it with enthusiasm.  At all costs this defense against the inroads of the Forest must be made secure.  They caught their uncle’s earnestness, felt even something of a hidden motive that he had; and the visit, usually rather dreaded, became the visit of their lives instead.  It was Aunt Sophia this time who seemed discouraging and dull.

“She’s got so old and funny,” opined Stephen.

But Alice, who felt in the silent displeasure of her aunt some secret thing that alarmed her, said: 

“I think she’s afraid of the woods.  She never comes into them with us, you see.”

“All the more reason then for making this wall impreg—­all fat and thick and solid,” he concluded, unable to manage the longer word.  “Then nothing—­simply nothing—­can get through.  Can’t it, Uncle David?”

And Mr. Bittacy, jacket discarded and working in his speckled waistcoat, went puffing to their aid, arranging the massive limb of the cedar like a hedge.

“Come on,” he said, “whatever happens, you know, we must finish before it’s dark.  Already the wind is roaring in the Forest further out.”  And Alice caught the phrase and instantly echoed it.  “Stevie,” she cried below her breath, “look sharp, you lazy lump.  Didn’t you hear what Uncle David said?  It’ll come in and catch us before we’ve done!”

They worked like Trojans, and, sitting beneath the wisteria tree that climbed the southern wall of the cottage, Mrs. Bittacy with her knitting watched them, calling from time to time insignificant messages of counsel and advice.  The messages passed, of course, unheeded.  Mostly, indeed, they were unheard, for the workers were too absorbed.  She warned her husband not to get too hot, Alice not to tear her dress, Stephen not to strain his back with pulling.  Her mind hovered between the homeopathic medicine-chest upstairs and her anxiety to see the business finished.