... That summer was a drought-stricken one; not a single drop of dew tempered its scorching heat, and the velvety green meadows of the little village turned into burnt fields the color of coffee, while the ancient trees beside the road began to go bare, scattering their dead yellow leaves into the deep ditches.

And it happened once, in those blazing days, that young Greenfield passed through this village in his automobile, and his eye was caught by the figure of an old woman laboring painfully with a large pail she had filled from the river water, trying to climb with it up to the main road.

The young man stopped his car and called at the top of his voice: "Can I be of any service to you, madam?"

And the young man helped her, set the pail of water in the car, seated the old woman beside him, and carried her where she wished — to a little hut on the road.

The young man lingered a moment, to see what the old woman wanted with the pail of water, that she should carry it all that distance herself...

And he watched her carry the pail with effort, and empty it slowly onto the soil, onto the trunk of an ancient tree that stood before the hut...

The young man asked her in astonishment: "You carried the water in this heavy pail a distance of at least a mile, to empty it at the foot of this tree? And I reckon you must be close on seventy!"

"Eighty, rather," the old woman answered, and she stretched out her trembling hand to touch the tree, and said: "I don't know what would become of me if this tree died!"

The young man raised his eyes and examined the tree with the careful gaze of a specialist... and he thought to himself... it was on its way to death... He wanted to reassure the old woman with a few words, but he could find nothing to say except this: "It is a long way to carry water to give this tree a drink."

"Yes," the old woman answered, "but this tree deserves more than that. It is the only friend left to me of the companions of my girlhood...

"My mother tied me to it, before I learned to walk...

"And seventy years ago I played beneath it, as children play, and my playmates would peep out through its leafy branches. Of all those friends none remain but this tree and myself..."

After a spell of musing the old woman took up her story again and said: "... And as a little girl, I used to climb this tree whenever my mother scolded me, and stay among its leaves, and feel as though its branches were pressing