“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 trees—­God’s sentinels ... 
  Yield of their huge, unutterable selves
  But at the word
  Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,
  Night of 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 appall.

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

“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.

“I never did!” It fell like a drip of cold water from the face muffled in the yellow shawl; even a child could have supplied the remainder of the unspoken thought.