The Man Whom the Trees Loved
It was her one fault in his eyes, this religious mania carried over from her upbringing, and it did no serious harm. Great emotion could shake it sometimes out of her. She clung to it because her father taught it her and not because she had thought it out for herself. Indeed, like many women, she never really thought at all, but merely reflected the images of others' thinking which she had learned to see. So, wise in his knowledge of human nature, old David Bittacy accepted the pain of being obliged to keep a portion of his inner life shut off from the woman he deeply loved. He regarded her little biblical phrases as oddities that still clung to a rather fine, big soul--like horns and little useless things some animals have not yet lost in the course of evolution while they have outgrown their use.
"My dear, what is it? You frightened me!" She asked it suddenly, sitting up so abruptly that her cap dropped sidew