“How peaceful it is.”
She slipped into the hollow of his arm, her head on his shoulder.
“It is so good to be able to trust a man. Do you not know what that means to me?”
“I know that nothing matters to me—but you.”
They stood close to the trunk of a white poplar, and kissed.
“You belong here now, mon chéri. You are sure that you will never be home-sick for England?”
Brent looked at the moon.
“It is like this,” he said; “a man learns what life can give him, and what he wants life to give him. The things that matter—the simple, happy, restful things! You may run all over the world looking for something you left in your own village. When you are young you are always wanting the apples on the other side of the wall. I’m not like that—now—thank God!”
She stretched out a hand and touched the trunk of the great poplar.
“Trees are so wise. They stay in the same place, it is true, but they grow; they see the great fields and the good, wise life of the fields. They feel the wind, and see the sky and the moon and the stars, and hear the water running through the meadows. Mon mari, I think we are going to be very happy here, you and I.”