never a cross word had she spoken. The furry creatures of the woods had
been her playmates and the birds had perched upon her shoulders to sing
their finest songs.

Now she was wan and thin as a withered branch. Like the elephant
uprooting trees, she often lost her temper. Sometimes she was sorry for
her crossness; more often she wasn't. When the Man offered her things to
eat, no matter what trouble he'd taken to get them, she'd say she wasn't
hungry. And yet he loved her none the less for her perverseness. He was
so afraid.... He couldn't have told you of what he was afraid, for
nobody had had time to die in the world as yet. He was filled with dread
lest, like God, she might vanish and walk the earth no more. So he
cudgelled his brains to find things to cure her. He invented wrong
remedies, just as in Eden he had invented wrong answers to the animals'
questions. He was never certain whether they would do her good or harm;
but he always assured her gravely that, if she'd only try them, she'd
feel instantly better. She never did; on the contrary she felt worse
and worse. Perhaps the wilderness was the cause. Perhaps it was the
forbidden fruit she had eaten. Perhaps it was a little of both, plus a
touch of Eden-sickness. She had never known an hour's ill-health up to
the moment when she had eaten the fruit and been turned out of the
garden. The poor Man was distracted. He didn't care what he did or whom
he robbed, if only he might hear her singing again and see her once more
smiling.

What he did wasn't tactful; it only made the animals hate him--all
except the dog and the robin--and brought new dangers about his head. It
was the month of October and nights were getting shivery. He had scraped
together fallen leaves to make a bed for her and had woven a covering of
withered grasses. In spite of this, from the setting of the sun till