And across the small field below the house, at sunset Roger would go down to the copse of birches there and find it filled with glints of light that took his glance far in among the slender, creamy stems of the trees, all slowly swaying to and fro, the leafage rich with autumn hues, warm orange, yellow and pale green.

Lovely and silent and serene.

So it had been when he was a boy and so it would be when he was dead.

Countless trees had been cut down but others had risen in their stead.

Now and then he could hear a bird warbling.
Long ago this spot had been his mother's favorite refuge from her busy day in the house.