From glorious tree to battered log it sank. No man ever saw more
instant wreck and ruin fall lightning-like on a fair thing. The mass was
crushed flat and shapeless by its own vast weight, and the larger boughs,
which did not touch the earth, were snapped short off by the concussion of
their fall.
Billy Jago held his back and whined while Barron spoke, as much to himself
as the woodman.
"Dear God!" he said, "to think that this glory of the hedge-row--this
kingdom of song birds--should come to the making of pauper coffins and
lodging-house furniture!"
"Squire must have money; an' folks must have coffins," said Billy. "You can
sleep your last sleep so sound in ellum as you can in oak, for that
matter."
Feeling the truth of the assertion, Barron admitted it, then turned his
back on the fallen king and pursued his way with thoughts reverting to the
proposed picture. There was nothing to alarm Joan Tregenza about him; which
seemed well, as he meant to approach the girl herself at the first
opportunity, and not her parents. Barron did not carry "artist" stamped
upon him. He was plainly attired in a thick tweed suit and wore a cap of
the same material. The man appeared insignificantly small. He was
clean-shaved and looked younger than his five-and-thirty years seen a short
distance off, but older when you stood beside him. He strolled now onward
toward the sea, and his cheeks took some color from the fine air.
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