“You know, I think you’re right!” He smiled like a child, pleased but a bit scared when he finds true what he had sought in make-believe. His brow wrinkled. He turned away from the brass glare of the light. “That light is horrid,” she said. “--all substitutes for the sun,” he said. “That is so.” “Yet what a wonder what a glory,” his body stiffened, “that we should have a substitute at all!” “Why glory, Samson Brenner, if the substitute is false?... Wait.” Mrs. Luve came back. She placed two candles between them on the Pembroke table. “Shut out the gas,” she said. There was blackness, heavy, hot, clasping them both. Two jets of liquid glow tongued from the mellow wood, made the wood lift and gleam like a sun’s ray through moving cloud: cast wreathings subtle, evanescent, out against the blackness. They were quiet. The candles ... two fingers rose, touched them across the table, joined them, hushed them. “May I say something to you?” “What, Mrs. Luve?” “You have a tongue that speaks truth, you have a tongue that lies.” “Haven’t we all?” “You must not have a tongue that lies: for you have a tongue that is true.” “Haven’t we all ...?” “You must not----“ --He does not see himself. He moves through a black Hole Bright--pouring brightness. Where is a Sun whereby a Sun may see? --I have ten fingers ... ten to weave a Web To catch at God. Too frail--too fine ... yet you slip through? * * * * * Fanny looked out from her back sun-parlor upon trees. Beside a high grey wall rose the thick life of a magnolia; beech and cherry and dogwood sang their light swift presences, a lawn was fresh like dew. “Trees,” she murmured....--They have waited the Winter. It is Spring, they prepare to give a whole new life--blossom and seed. That is why it is Spring. Each year ... at their feet the dead leaves sink and rot. They push forth new ones. Each year.... They cannot help themselves. She could go no farther.--Helpless bravery.... Upstairs in her cradle Edith slept. Harry was gone, voiceless, eight months. She was imprisoned in her man’s absence, in her child’s presence. She had a dream. Harry jumped on his black horse, stood over her in his stirrups. He ribboned the black flanks red with his spurs. The horse leaped: as he flew away he leaned to her and cut deep her breast with his crop.... She awoke thinking of Edith. Her child was the red salute of Harry’s going: the scar of it. She loved her child.