"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 murmured, "God will direct. We will accept His guidance.
He has always shown the way before."

"My selfishness afflicts me--" he began, but she would not let him
finish.

"David, He will direct. Nothing shall harm you. You've never once been
selfish, and I cannot bear to hear you say such things. The way will
open that is best for you--for both of us." She kissed him, she would
not let him speak; her heart was in her throat, and she felt for him far
more than for herself.