She saw now that they were full of eyes, terrible accusing eyes, an eye on every leaf, thousands of eyes. “If I could change their eyes to ears,” she thought, “then I could tell them.” She became clever. She shut her own eyes so that they could not see her. No sooner had she done so than she remembered that this was a game she had played with Him when she was a little girl. She stood in the corner with closed eyes and said, “Now you can’t see me.” He hunted from corner to corner until he stumbled upon her. Then she opened her eyes and he shouted, “Now I see you!” She knew all the time really that he saw her. So she knew now that the thousands of eyes saw her and there was no use trying to play a silly game with them. “Perhaps he will be here now if I open my eyes,” she thought, “and he will tell them.” Dismay swept over her. “But how can he? I never told him. How could he know if I did not tell him?” She opened her eyes and looked upon the walls of forest. They were waiting for her to speak, unsettling themselves uneasily. The eyes began to move back and forth and as they moved they read words out of her through her own voice: “His mother never would have forgiven me. She wouldn’t have believed he did it. She’d have thought I made him do it.” The words seemed weak, thin, a flimsy covering for something that lay underneath. The trunks of the trees rubbed against one another, complaining at her words. The eyes glowered upon her, piercing into her. “They want to know everything,” she thought desperately, “everything, from the beginning.” She addressed them as though they had commanded her. “But that would take too long, all of it, the whole thing.” The forest ruffled itself still more uneasily and murmured against her. The eyes became sinister. In fear, she spoke: “His mother took me in when I was little, from the city, nobody’s. She brought me up to be his sister. She called me daughter, gave me things.” The forest began sweeping its branches in front of her. “It doesn’t believe me,” she thought in terror. “It won’t let me pass, ever.” She began to cry. “He might have hated me if I told him. He might have hated me.” The branches swept in front of her. She could not see the road. It was covered with sweeping branches.... She awoke. Her face was wet, quite wet, as though she had been in the water. Her hand lay on the bundle that held her Sin. She became wide awake, alert. She felt cunning arise within her. She stirred in bed. No one came. Sin should be covered. Her hand was on the patchwork quilt, grasped it, drew it up over the bundle of Sin, held it close. Her hand unclosed after a while, dragged the quilt back a little. She lay still. Her eyes slept....