She answered evasively. “One day! We women all understand one day.” He repeated his question, “But what must I do?” She put her arm about his shoulder. “Wait. It's all that either of us can do.” Why did she include herself? The room was very silent. In its patient preparedness, it must have spent years in waiting. The garden outside seemed to listen, tiptoe. The door was white, as if little used. The sunlight on the lawn crept slowly. Everything watched; yet nothing was wideawake. For whom were they all expectant? _Always there is one who allows, and one who loves_. Was that the explanation? Above the open volume of cloistered consolation, with its disillusioned counsels of timid patience, the Faun Man smiled from his silver frame. Peter had always thought----. So, after all, was it the Faun Man who had delayed? And Cherry loved him! Had that anything to do with it? He crushed the suspicion down--and yet it survived. “And you don't know----. You couldn't tell me where to write?” The golden woman shook her head. “Who can say? You don't know much about love, Peter. It's a continual hoping for something which never happens--or which, when it happens, is something different. People say it's a state of heart--it's really a state of mind. I think--and you'll hate me for saying it--I think true love is always on one side and is always disappointed. Did you ever hear about the green tree and the bird in the morn? You didn't? “A bird in the morn To a green tree was calling: 'Come over. Come over. Night's vanished. Day's born. And I'm weary--I want you, green tree, for my lover; Through clouds I am falling, A-flutter, a-flutter. I'm lonely, Here only. And heard your leaves mutter. Night's vanished. Day's born. So run out and fold me, green tree, in the morn.' “The bird in the morn Heard a distant tree sighing: I cannot come over-- Night's vanished. Day's born. I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover; So freely you're flying, A-flutter, a-flutter. Sink hither, Not thither. Hark how my leaves mutter, Night's vanished. Love's born.' The bird flew--ah, whither? The tree was forlorn.” She stroked his hand. “In true love,” she said, “there's always one who could but won't, and one who would but cannot.” “Not always,” he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his mother and father. “How certain you are!” She watched him mockingly. “Ah, you know of an exception! Believe me, Peter, winged birds and rooted trees are by far the more common.”