his calling took him away from her into the jungle forests, while she
remained at home dreading all manner of evils that might befall him.
This, of course, explained her instinctive opposition to the passion for
woods that still influenced and clung to him. It was a natural survival
of those anxious days of waiting in solitude for his safe return.

For Mrs. Bittacy, daughter of an evangelical clergy-man, was a
self-sacrificing woman, who in most things found a happy duty in sharing
her husband's joys and sorrows to the point of self-obliteration. Only
in this matter of the trees she was less successful than in others. It
remained a problem difficult of compromise.

He knew, for instance, that what she objected to in this portrait of the
cedar on their lawn was really not the price he had given for it, but
the unpleasant way in which the transaction emphasized this breach
between their common interests--the only one they had, but deep.

Sanderson, the artist, earned little enough money by his strange talent;
such checks were few and far between. The owners of fine or interesting
trees who cared to have them painted singly were rare indeed, and the
"studies" that he made for his own delight he also kept for his own
delight. Even were there buyers, he would not sell them. Only a few, and
these peculiarly intimate friends, might even see them, for he disliked
to hear the undiscerning criticisms of those who did not understand. Not
that he minded laughter at his craftsmanship--he admitted it with
scorn--but that remarks about the personality of the tree itself could
easily wound or anger him. He resented slighting observations concerning
them, as though insults offered to personal friends who could not answer
for themselves. He was instantly up in arms.