y, was deep and real. She loved to suffer for them
both. Besides, the way her husband had put it to her was singular. It
did not take the form of a mere selfish predilection. Something higher
than two wills in conflict seeking compromise was in it from the
beginning.

"I feel, Sophia, it would be really more than I could manage," he said
slowly, gazing into the fire over the tops of his stretched-out muddy
boots. "My duty and my happiness lie here with the Forest and with you.
My life is deeply rooted in this place. Something I can't define
connects my inner being with these trees, and separation would make me
ill--might even kill me. My hold on life would weaken; here is my source
of supply. I cannot explain it better than that." He looked up steadily
into her face across the table so that she saw the gravity of his
expression and the shining of his steady eyes.

"David, you feel it as strongly as that!" she said, forgetting the tea
things altogether.

"Yes," he replied, "I do. And it's not of the body only, I feel it in my
soul."

The reality of what he hinted at crept into that shadow-covered room
like an actual Presence and stood beside them. It came not by the
windows or the door, but it filled the entire space between the walls
and ceiling. It took the heat from the fire before her face. She felt
suddenly cold, confused a little, frightened. She almost felt the rush
of foliage in the wind. It stood between them.

"There are things--some things," she faltered, "we are not intended to
know, I think." The words expressed her general attitude to life, not
alone to this particular incident.

And after a pause of several minutes, disregarding the criticism as
though he had not heard it--"I cannot explain it better than that, you
see," his grave voice answered. "There is this deep, tremendous
link,--some secret power they emanate that keeps me well and happy
and--alive. If you cannot understand, I feel at least you may be able
to--forgive." His tone grew tender, gentle, soft. "My selfishness, I
know, must seem quite unforgivable. I cannot help it somehow; these
trees, this ancient Forest, both seem knitted into all that makes me
live, and if I go--"

There was a little sound of collapse in his voice. He stopped abruptly,
and sank back in his chair. And, at that, a distinct lump came up into
her throat which she had great difficulty in managing while she went
over and put her arms about him.

"My dear," she mur