On a brilliant morning of early April, 1914, they had stepped out
together to drink the air. The beeches were in misty, silver bloom
above them. All around was peace and gladness.
"I want to tell you a dream I had last night," he said, "a strange
dream about our beeches."
"If it was sad," she answered, "do not let the shadow of it fall
on the morning."
"But it was not sad. It seemed rather to bring light and comfort.
I dreamed that I was dead and you had buried me at the foot of
the largest of the trees."
"Do you call that not sad?" she interrupted reproachfully.
"It did not seem so. Wait a moment and you shall hear the way of
it. At first I felt only a deep quietness and repose, like one who
has been in pain and is very tired and lies down in the shade to
sleep. Then I was waking again and something was drawing me gently
upward. I cannot exactly explain it, but it was as if I were passing
through the roots and the trunk and the boughs of the beech-tree
toward the upper air. There I saw the light again and heard the
birds singing and the wind rustling among the leaves.
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