It was indeed hard to describe this spirit, for it was so transparent and yet so real. You could see the trees through the graceful robe quite plainly, yea, and something more. You could see other black paths in the forest which had hitherto been hidden. For this place was all magical, and the spirit was magical too. It had the power of explaining the key to life, or rather lives, and no sooner did you look through it than the whole forest became peopled with poor drudges in the shape of men. And it made you irresistibly sad. Here you saw a man struggling on, his feet all drenched with the red stream that to him looked black. He had fallen, and the black leaves smirched with blood clung to his poor lean ribs. Now he staggered. Good God! Would he fall again? Oh, yes. Hark! The bitter cry! And outside in the world a shrill laugh went up, for as he fell he kicked out somewhat with his heels and the devil translated it onto a comic canvas, and made it appear too funny for words. He is still now. The black leaves cover him. What was his last living thought? God’s secret and his own. And lo! _There_ is another path, and along it crawls a woman, all alone—there are no pairs in the Forest of Failure, Silence will see to that. There is the red dye again, that to her looks black. It is a very fragile woman, with a lovely face, which the gloom hides. She has very tender feet, and there are so many flinty stones along the path. The black leaves cling to her skirts like millstones. There! Another fall! No upward struggle here. There is a golden hoop of a wedding-ring that slips off the skeleton finger into the thin stream. It is dyed blood red. And there is another little plaything in her hand, a baby’s rattle, red too. Why, you know, it is only the failure of domestic love; and when she falls there is no cry in the accepted sense; a childish sob that speaks more than words, and in the outside world the shout of drunken revelry has drowned it. That’s how it is the tears and sighs of the mighty forest are never heard. And there were very many other paths, and many faces; and on all the faces suffering was written, so that there was a terrible beauty and refinement in the forest. You see it was not the Forest of Sin, or reckless Self-indulgence, but the Forest of Silence and Pain, that do not allow of them. Now I said that the Spirit’s robes were transparent; they reflected, or rather revealed, things that were beyond. But all this Deborah took in vaguely, or perhaps it seemed to her she had been used to looking through that figure all her life, so there was nothing very wonderful in the sights it showed. But the face Deborah was not so sure about. It was a face as perfectly moulded as if it were cut in marble. There was no trace of human passion or emotion on it. A broad brow, a calm eye, a straight nose with finely-cut nostrils, a mouth of exquisite beauty, if somewhat coldly drawn, and a well-shaped chin.