Few artists would have taken so much trouble, though I read once that Holman Hunt, Rossetti, or some one of that lot, painted all night in his orchard to get an effect of moo'nlight that he wanted.*

He chattered on. His wife was glad to hear his

voice ; it made her feel more easy in her mind. But presently the other held the floor again, and her thoughts grew darkened and afraid. Instinctively she feared the influence on her husband. The mystery and wonder that lie in woods, in forests, in great gatherings of trees everywhere, seemed so real and present while he talked.

* The Night transfigures all things in a way,' he was saying ; ' but nothing so searchingly as trees. From behind a veil that sunlight hangs before them in the day they emerge and show themselves. Even buildings do that—in a measure—but trees particularly. In the daytime they sleep ; at night they wake, they manifest, turn active—live. You remember,' turning politely again in the direction of his hostess, * how clearly Henley understood that ? '

* That socialist person, you mean ?' asked the lady. Her tone and accent made the substantive sound criminal. It almost hissed, the way she uttered it.

* The poet, yes,' replied the artist tactfully, * the friend of Stevenson, you remember, Stevenson who wrote those charming children's verses.'

He quoted in a low voice the lines he meant. It was, for once, the time, the place, and the setting all together. The words floated out across the lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept the little garden with its league-long curve that was like the shore-line of a sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf accompanied his voice, as though the wind was fain to listen too :

Not to the staring Day,

For all the importunate questionings he pursues

In his big, violent voice,

Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,

THE MAN WHOM THE TREES LOVED 23

The trees—God's sentinels . . . Yield of their huge, unutterable selves.

But at the word

Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,

Night of the many secrets, whose effect—

Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread—

Themselves alone may fully apprehend,

They tremble and are changed :

In each the uncouth, individual soul

Looms forth and glooms

Essential, and, their bodily presences

Touched with inordinate significance,

Wearing the darkness like a livery

Of some mysterious and tremendous guild,

They brood—they menace—they appal.

The voice of Mrs. Bittacy presently broke the silence that followed.

4 I like that part about God's sentinels/ she murmured. There was no sharpness in her tone ; it was hushed and quiet. The truth, so musically uttered, muted her shrill objections though it had not lessened her alarm. Her husband made no comment; his cigar, she noticed, had gone out.

* And old trees in particular,' continued the artist, as though to himself, ' have very definite personalities. You can offend, wound, please them ; the moment you stand within their shade you feel whether they come out to you, or whether they withdraw.' He turned abruptly towards his host. * You know that singular essay of Prentice Mulford's, no doubt, " God in the Trees "—extravagant perhaps, but yet with a fine true beauty in it ? You've never read it, no ?' he asked.

But it was Mrs. Bittacy who answered ; her husband keeping his curious deep silence.

from the face muffled in the yellow shawl; even a child could have supplied the remainder of the unspoken thought.

* Ah/ said Sanderson gently, ' but there is " God " in the trees, God in a very subtle aspect and sometimes—I have known the trees express it too—that which is not God—dark and terrible. Have you ever noticed, too, how clearly trees show what they want—choose their companions, at least? How beeches, for instance, allow no life too near them— birds or squirrels in their boughs, nor any growth beneath ? The silence in the beech wood is quite terrifying often ! And how pines like bilberry bushes at their feet and sometimes little oaks—all trees making a clear, deliberate choice, and holding firmly to it ? Some trees obviously—it's very strange and marked—seem to prefer the human.'

The old lady sat up crackling, for this was more than she could permit. Her stiff silk dress emitted little sharp reports.

* We know,' she answered, * that He was said to have walked in the garden in the cool of the evening'—the gulp betrayed the effort that it cost her—' but we are nowhere told that He hid in the trees, or anything like that. Trees, after all, we must remember, are only large vegetables.'

c True,' was the soft answer, * but in everything that grows, has life, that is, there's mystery past all finding out. The wonder that lies hidden in our own souls lies also hidden, I venture to assert, in the stupidity and silence of a mere potato.'

The observation was not meant to be amusing. It was not amusing. No one laughed.