“The Phoenix. They called it a bird, but, of course, the true …”
“But my life’s insured in that,” I cried, for he had named the company that took large yearly premiums from me; “and I pay …”
“Your life’s insured in this,” he said quietly, waving his arms to indicate the Earth. “Your love of Nature and your sympathy with it make you safe.” He gazed at me. There was a marvellous expression in his eyes. I understood why poets talked of stars and flowers in a human face. But behind the face crept back another look as well. There grew about his figure an indeterminate extension. The outline of Malahide again stirred through his own. A pale, delicate hand reached out to take my own. And something broke in me.
I was conscious of two things — a burst of joy that meant losing myself entirely, an
