"Now more than ever, dear. God bless you for you sweet unselfishness.
And your sacrifice," he added, "is all the greater because you cannot
understand the thing that makes it necessary for me to stay."

"Perhaps in the spring instead--" she said, with a tremor in the voice.

"In the spring--perhaps," he answered gently, almost beneath his breath.
"For they will not need me then. All the world can love them in the
spring. It's in the winter that they're lonely and neglected. I wish to
stay with them particularly then. I even feel I ought to--and I must."

And in this way, without further speech, the decision was made. Mrs.
Bittacy, at least, asked no more questions. Yet she could not bring
herself to show more sympathy than was necessary. She felt, for one
thing, that if she did, it might lead him to speak freely, and to tell
her things she could not possibly bear to know. And she dared not take
the risk of that.



~VII~

This was at the end of summer, but the autumn followed close. The
conversation really marked the threshold between the two seasons, and
marked at the same time the line between her husband's negative and
aggressive state. She almost felt she had done wrong to yield; he grew
so bold, concealment all discarded. He went, that is, quite openly to
the woods, forgetting all his duties, all his former occupations. He
even sought to coax her to go with him. The hidden thing blazed out