e into the wood, inhaling the odour of
moist soil, the voluptuous scents of our mother, the Earth, gravid with
silent life. For a moment he was intoxicated by the paradise of verdure.
The beech-trees rose very tall, with their delicate branches singularly
black amid the young leaves of the spring, tender and vivid. The eye
could not pierce the intricate greenery; it was more delicate than the
summer rain, subtler than the mists of the sunset. It was a scene to
drive away all thought of the sadness of life, of the bitterness. Its
exquisite fresh purity made James feel pure also, and like a little
child he wandered over the undulating earth, broken by the tortuous
courses of the streamlets of winter.

The ground was soft, covered with brown dead leaves, and he tried to see
the rabbit rustling among them, or the hasty springing of a squirrel.
The long branches of the briar entangled his feet; and here and there,
in sheltered corners, blossomed the primrose and the violet He listened
to the chant of the birds, so joyous that it seemed impossible they sang
in a world of sorrow. Hidden among the leaves, aloft in the beeches, the
linnet sang with full-throated melody, and the blackbird and the thrush.
In the distance a cuckoo called its mysterious note, and far away, like
an echo, a fellow-bird called back.

All Nature was rejoicing in the delight of the sunshine; all Nature was
rejoicing, and his heart alone was heavy as lead. He stood by a
fir-tree, which rose far above the others, immensely tall, like the mast
of a solitary ship; it was straight as a life without reproach, but
cheerless, cold, and silent. His life, too, was without reproach,
thought James--without reproach till now.... He had loved Mary Clibborn.
But was it love, or was it merely affection, habit, esteem? She was the
only girl he knew, and they had grown up together. When he came from
school for his holidays, or later from Sandhurst, on leave, Mary was his
constant friend, without whom he would have been miserably dull. She was
masculine enough to enter into his boyish games, and even their thoughts
were common. There were so few people in Little Primpton that those who
lived there saw one another continually; and though Tunbridge Wells was
only four miles away, the distance effectually prevented very close
intimacy with its inhabitants. It was natural, then, that James should
only look forward to an existence in which Mary took part; without that
pleasant