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"We must go," said Miriam.
"Yes," he answered, but did not move.
To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death,
and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be
urgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt
out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.
"The rain is coming in on us," said Miriam.
He rose, and assisted her.
"It is a pity," he said.
"What?"
"To have to go. I feel so still."
"Still!" she repeated.
"Stiller than I have ever been in my life."
He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, feeling
a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear lest she should
lose him.
"The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only a
presence."
She was afraid, and said nothing.
"A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that's
what we do in death--sleep in wonder."
She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic.


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