She fell to musing on the old perplexing question.

After all could there not have been some mistake?
Perhaps she might have misjudged him?
And then the old spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood, rose and fought the old battle over again.

But as often happened the mood conquered, and Betty permitted herself to sink for the moment into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.
She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.
The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and stones.

Betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.
The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild winds of winter.

The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves; the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.
Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the tree and into the foam covered pool beneath.