it's beginning to
get leafy."

"Well, of course."

She was leaning against him, for safety, just a little; and stretching
out his arm, he took good hold of the branch to make a back for her.
There was a silence. Then he said:

"If you could only have one tree, which would you have?"

"Not oaks. Limes--no--birches. Which would you?"

He pondered. There were so many trees that were perfect. Birches and
limes, of course; but beeches and cypresses, and yews, and cedars, and
holm-oaks--almost, and plane-trees; then he said suddenly:

"Pines; I mean the big ones with reddish stems and branches pretty high
up."

"Why?"

Again he pondered. It was very important to explain exactly why; his
feelings about everything were concerned in this. And while he mused she
gazed at him, as if surprised to see anyone think so deeply. At last he
said:

"Because they're independent and dignified and never quite cold, and
their branches seem to brood, but chiefly because the ones I mean are
generally out of the common where you find them. You know--just one or
two, strong and dark, standing out against the sky."

"They're TOO dark."

It occurred to him suddenly that he had forgotten larches. They, of
course, could be heavenly, when you lay under them and looked up at the
sky, as he had that afternoon out there. Then he heard her say:

"If I could only have one flower, I should have lilies of the valley, the
small ones that grow wild and smell so jolly."

He had a swift vision of another flower, dark--very different, and was
silent.

"What would you have, Mark?" Her voice sounded a little hurt. "You ARE
thinking of one, aren't you?"

He said honestly:

"Yes, I am."

"Which?"

"It's dark, too; you wouldn't care for it a bit."

"How d'you know?"

"A clove carnation."

"But I do like it--only--not very much."

He nodded solemnly.

"I knew you wouldn't."

Then a silence fell between them. She had ceased to lean against him,
and he missed the cosy friendliness of it. Now that their voices and the
cawings of the rooks had ceased, there was nothing heard but the dry
rustle of the leaves, and the plaintive cry of a buzzard hawk hunting
over the little tor across the river. There were nearly always two up
there, quartering the sky. To the boy it was lovely, that silence--like
Nature talking to you--Nature always talked in silences. The beasts, the
birds, the insects, only really showed themselves when y