es and civilization, leave only the bare earth with
plants growing and waters running, and he would not mind, so
long as he were whole, had Anna and the child and the new,
strange certainty in his soul. Then, if he were naked, he would
find clothing somewhere, he would make a shelter and bring food
to his wife.

And what more? What more would be necessary? The great mass
of activity in which mankind was engaged meant nothing to him.
By nature, he had no part in it. What did he live for, then? For
Anna only, and for the sake of living? What did he want on this
earth? Anna only, and his children, and his life with his
children and her? Was there no more?

He was attended by a sense of something more, something
further, which gave him absolute being. It was as if now he
existed in Eternity, let Time be what it might. What was there
outside? The fabricated world, that he did not believe in? What
should he bring to her, from outside? Nothing? Was it enough, as
it was? He was troubled in his acquiescence. She was not with
him. Yet he scarcely believed in himself, apart from her, though
the whole Infinite was with him. Let the whole world slide down
and over the edge of oblivion, he would stand alone. But he was
unsure of her. And he existed also in her. So he was unsure.

He hovered near to her, never quite able to forget the vague,
haunting uncertainty, that seemed to challenge him, and which he
would not hear. A pang of dread, almost guilt, as of
insufficiency, would go over him as he heard her talking to the
baby. She stood before the window, with the month-old child in
her arms, talking in a musical, young sing-song that he had not
heard before, and which rang on his heart like a claim from the
distance, or the voice of another world sounding its claim on
him. He stood near, listening, and his heart surged, surged to
rise and submit. Then it shrank back and stayed aloof. He could
not move, a denial was upon him, as if he could not deny
himself. He must, he must be himself.

"Look at the silly blue-caps, my beauty," she crooned,
holding up the infant to the window, where shone the white
garden, and the blue-tits scuffling in the snow: "Look at the
silly blue-caps, my darling, having a fight in the snow! Look at
them, my bird--beating the snow about with their wings, and
shaking their heads. Oh, aren't they wicked things, wicked
things! Look at their yellow feathers on the snow there! They'll
miss them, won't they,