When I was a child, the great delight in Miss Grange’s company had derived from the mysteries of the woods she unlocked before me. Few of the other summer guests ventured to penetrate the back regions of the woods behind the House, preferring instead the yachting pleasures of the open, startling waters of the sea. For some fortuitous reason, I had been singled out as one who could walk alongside the quiet familiar of these trees, and my childish self-regard puffed greatly at the unexpected sympathy grown up between myself and my older companion.

Yet, I admit that in the past few years I had accompanied Miss Grange more and more in order to fathom her—the secrets of the woods grow hushed before this woman whose character I could not mark. Though she was quiet, she was not unforthcoming. Though she was solemn, she was not severe. Try as I might, the older I grew, the less certain I was that I could correctly read a particular smile she gave, or a confirming nod of her head. I had begun to watch Miss Grange with the degree of quiet anticipation one usually reserves for a mummer’s sleight of hand.

That morning we walked silently along, Miss Grange’s basket slung upon a strap soldier-fashion across her chest and back, lending her slight frame an added heft. And though we did not speak, my companion often paused at several spots upon the way and pointed, as if to recall us to the previous journey here, each place a stitch picked up again and knit anew into the continuous correspondence between us. She seemed disinclined to pause in any spot for long, however, as if her finger tapped impatiently upon the page while she waited for me to turn it as I read. I did not mind her lack of attention; indeed, I welcomed it, sensing that though she did not inquire into me, still she watched alongside, her clear, unstated sympathy the very essence of my pleasure in our friendship.

But I could not stop from exclaiming aloud at the violent curve the winter wind had caused in a line of spruce. Trees that had stood new and clear and proud last summer now veered at slant angles one from the other—still living, but unalterably shifted, one blown sideways so relentlessly, its newest branches grew round its neighbor in a lateral crutch.

Miss Grange had stopped beside me. “What is it?”

“I cannot say,” I whispered. And at first I did not know why I had started at the sight. But then I saw the trees had called to mind how Halcy’s arms were wrapped round Henry’s neck just so, tight and small around his sturdy frame. I pulled my linen wrap tighter round the light stuff at my shoulders.