“My dear,” she murmured, “God will direct.  We will accept His guidance.  He has always shown the way before.”

“My selfishness afflicts me—­” he began, but she would not let him finish.

“David, He will direct.  Nothing shall harm you.  You’ve never once been selfish, and I cannot bear to hear you say such things.  The way will open that is best for you—­for both of us.”  She kissed him, she would not let him speak; her heart was in her throat, and she felt for him far more than for herself.

And then he had suggested that she should go alone perhaps for a shorter time, and stay in her brother’s villa with the children, Alice and Stephen.  It was always open to her as she well knew.

“You need the change,” he said, when the lamps had been lit and the servant had gone out again; “you need it as much as I dread it.  I could manage somehow until you returned, and should feel happier that way if you went.  I cannot leave this Forest that I love so well.  I even feel, Sophie dear”—­he sat up straight and faced her as he half whispered it—­“that I can never leave it again.  My life and happiness lie here together.”

And eve while scorning the idea that she could 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 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.