With the definite arrival of the colder weather her husband gave up his
rambles after dark; evenings were spent together over the fire; he read
The Times; they even talked about their postponed visit abroad in the
coming spring. No restlessness was on him at the change; he seemed
content and easy in his mind; spoke little of the trees and woods;
enjoyed far better health than if there had been change of scene, and to
herself was tender, kind, solicitous over trifles, as in the distant
days of their first honeymoon.

But this deep calm could not deceive her; it meant, she fully
understood, that he felt sure of himself, sure of her, and sure of the
trees as well. It all lay buried in the depths of him, too secure and
deep, too intimately established in his central being to permit of those
surface fluctuations which betray disharmony within. His life was hid
with trees. Even the fever, so dreaded in the damp of winter, left him
free. She now knew why: the fever was due to their efforts to obtain
him, his efforts to respond and go--physical results of a fierce unrest
he had never understood till Sanderson came with his wicked
explanations. Now it was otherwise. The bridge was made. And--he had
gone.

And she, brave, loyal, and consistent soul, found herself utterly alone,
even trying to make his passage easy. It seemed that she stood at the
bottom of some huge ravine that opened in her mind, the walls whereof
instead of rock were trees that reached enormous to the sky, engulfing
her. God alone knew that she was there. He watched, permitted, even
perhaps approved. At any rate--He knew.

During those quiet evenings in the house, moreover, while they sat over
the fire listening to the roaming winds about the house, her husband