"Ask the wise men of the East," replied the sculptor grimly.

When he was a little past fifty the baron married, with steadfast
choice and deep affection, the orphan daughter of a noble family
of Hainault. She was about half his age; of a tranquil, cheerful
temper and a charm that depended less on feature than on expression;
a lover of music, books, and a quiet life. She brought him a small
dowry by which the chateau was restored to comfort, and bore him
two children, a boy and a girl, by whom it was enlivened with
natural gayety. The next twenty years were the happiest that Albert
d'Azan and his wife ever saw. The grand avenue of beeches became
to them the unconscious symbol of something settled and serene,
august, protective, sacred.

On a brilliant morning of early April, 1914, they had stepped out
together to drink the air. The beeches were in misty, silver bloom
above them. All around was peace and gladness.

"I want to tell you a dream I had last night," he said, "a strange
dream about our beeches."

"If it was sad," she answered, "do not let the shadow of it fall
on the morning."

"But it was not sad. It seemed rather to bring light and comfort.
I dreamed that I was dead and you had buried me at the foot of
the largest of the trees."

"Do you call that not sad?" she interrupted reproachfully.