leave him alone with the Influence of the Forest all about him to have its unimpeded way, she felt the pangs of that subtle jealousy bite keen and close. He loved the Forest better than herself, for he placed it first. Behind the words, moreover, hid the unuttered thought that made her so uneasy. The terror Sanderson had brought revived and shook its wings before her very eyes. For the whole conversation, of which this was a fragment, conveyed the unutterable implication that while he could not spare the trees, they equally could not spare him. The vividness with which he managed to conceal and yet betray the fact brought a profound distress that crossed the border between presentiment and warning into positive alarm.
He clearly felt that the trees would miss him—the trees he tended, guarded, watched over, loved.
'David, I shall stay here with you. I think you need me really,—don't you?' Eagerly, with a touch of heart-felt passion, the words poured out.
'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
