‘What do I matter, or all that matters to me?’
And I felt that it was for Hugo, this chorus of his trees.
I felt:
‘This is his wood. The trees are singing for him.’
And I felt:
‘I have understood . . . I have understood at last!’
And I went down from the wood, after a long time. And I met Cousin Delia coming out of the walled garden. Her arms were full of flowers, dahlias, and chrysanthemums. Smoke was rising up, very blue, from behind the garden wall, and she looked happy too.
I went up to her and said:
‘I was in the wood. The trees were like trumpets blowing. . . “And he went over, and the trumpets sounded for him, on the other side.” . . . It was like that to-day!’
And she said: