ne in my young days."

"And anyhow it isn't the same cedar."

"It has made me fond of all cedars for its sake," he answered, "and it
reminds me that you are the same young girl still--"

She crossed the room to his side, and together they looked out of the
window where, upon the lawn of their Hampshire cottage, a ragged Lebanon
stood in a solitary state.

"You're as full of dreams as ever," she said gently, "and I don't regret
the check a bit--really. Only it would have been more real if it had
been the original tree, wouldn't it?"

"That was blown down years ago. I passed the place last year, and
there's not a sign of it left," he replied tenderly. And presently, when
he released her from his side, she went up to the wall and carefully
dusted the picture Sanderson had made of the cedar on their present
lawn. She went all round the frame with her tiny handkerchief, standing
on tiptoe to reach the top rim.

"What I like about it," said the old fellow to himself when his wife had
left the room, "is the way he has made it live. All trees have it, of
course, but a cedar taught it to me first--the 'something' trees possess
that make them know I'm there when I stand close and watch. I suppose I
felt it then because I was in love, and love reveals life everywhere."
He glanced a moment at the Lebanon looming gaunt and somber through the
gathering dusk. A curious wistful expression danced a moment through his
eyes. "Yes, Sanderson has seen it as it is," he murmured, "solemnly
dreaming there its dim hidden life against the Forest edge, and as
different from that other tree in Kent as I am from--from the vicar,
say. It's quite a stranger, too. I don't know anything about it really.
That other cedar I loved; this old fellow I respect. Friendly
though--yes, on the whole quite friendly. He's painted the friendliness
right enough. He saw that. I'd like to know that man better," he added.
"I'd like to ask him how he saw so clearly that it stands there between
this cottage and the Forest--yet somehow more in sympathy with us than
with the mass of woods behind--a sort of go-between. _That_ I never
noticed before. I see it now--through his eyes. It stands there like a
sentinel--protective rather."

He turned away abruptly to look through the window. He saw the great
encircling mass of gloom that was the Forest, fringing their little
lawn. It pressed up closer in the darkness. The prim garden with its
formal beds of flowers seemed