Again and again, he seemed about to speak.

But somehow his words seemed to fail him.

Twice I took him into the very heart of the little wood beside Mother's house, but it was only a small wood, and somehow he slipped out on the other side.

"Oh, John," I had said, "how lonely and still it seems in the wood with no one here but ourselves! Do you think," I said, "that the birds have souls ?" "I don't know," John answered, "let's get out of this." I was sure that his emotion was too strong for him.

"I never feel a bit lonesome where you are, John," I said, as we made our way among the underbrush.