m them he
languished as a lover of the sea can droop inland, or a mountaineer may
pine in the flat monotony of the plains.

This she could understand, in a fashion at least, and make allowances
for. She had yielded gently, even sweetly, to his choice of their
English home; for in the little island there is nothing that suggests
the woods of wilder countries so nearly as the New Forest. It has the
genuine air and mystery, the depth and splendor, the loneliness, and
there and there the strong, untamable quality of old-time forests as
Bittacy of the Department knew them.

In a single detail only had he yielded to her wishes. He consented to a
cottage on the edge, instead of in the heart of it. And for a dozen
years now they had dwelt in peace and happiness at the lips of this
great spreading thing that covered so many leagues with its tangle of
swamps and moors and splendid ancient trees.

Only with the last two years or so--with his own increasing age, and
physical decline perhaps--had come this marked growth of passionate
interest in the welfare of the Forest. She had watched it grow, at first
had laughed at it, then talked sympathetically so far as sincerity
permitted, then had argued mildly, and finally come to realize that its
treatment lay altogether beyond her powers, and so had come to fear it
with all her heart.

The six weeks they annually spent away from their English home, each
regarded very differently, of course. For her husband it meant a painful
exile that did his health no good; he yearned for his trees--the sight
and sound and smell of them; but for herself it meant release from a
haunting dread--escape. To renounce those six weeks by the sea on the
sunny, shining coast of France, was almost more than this little woman,
even with her unselfishness, could face.

After the first shock of the announcement, she reflected as deeply as
her nature permitted, prayed, wept in secret--and made up her mind.
Duty, she felt clearly, pointed to renouncement. The discipline would
certainly be severe--she did not dream at the moment how severe!--but
this fine, consistent little Christian saw it plain; she accepted it,
too, without any sighing of the martyr, though the courage she showed
was of the martyr order. Her husband should never know the cost. In all
but this one passion his unselfishness was ever as great as her own. The
love she had borne him all these years, like the love she bore her
anthropomorphic deit