And gradually I understand and know.

And I listen, and Nature speaks, really speaks--not a _facon de parler_, as some people think who explain to you that you mean this or that by your words which you don't mean--and her spirit becomes one with my spirit.

And I feel I can never again misunderstand her, never again fail to interpret her, never again wander so far away from her that every white anemone and every seedling fern disowns me, and waits in silence till the alien has gone from among them.

And I come home, Rachel, and I try, sometimes I try for half the night, to find words to translate it into.

But there are no words, or, if there are, I cannot find them, and at last I fall back on some coarse simile, and in my despair I write it down.