lipped unseen to his room. He locked the door, started to undress. Then sudden sleep swept over him like a wave, drew him helplessly down into ocean depths of sleep. A knocking at the door awakened McKay, and the innkeeper's voice summoned him to dinner. Sleepily, he answered, and as the old man's footsteps died away, he roused himself. His eyes fell upon his shirt and the great stains now rusty brown. Puzzled, he stared at them for a moment, then full memory clicked back in place. He walked to the window. It was dusk. A wind was blowing and the trees were singing, all the little leaves dancing; the forest hummed a cheerful vespers. Gone was all the unease, all the inarticulate trouble and the fear. The forest was tranquil and it was happy. He sought the coppice through the gathering twilight. Its demoiselles were dancing lightly in the wind, leafy hoods dipping, leafy skirts ablow. Beside them marched the green troubadours, carefree, waving their needled arms. Gay was the little wood, gay as when its beauty had first drawn him to it. McKay undressed, hid the stained shirt in his travelling trunk, bathed and put on a fresh outfit, sauntered down to dinner. He ate excellently. Wonder now and then crossed his mind that he felt no regret, no sorrow even, for the man he had killed. Half he was inclined to believe it all a dream-so little of any emotion did he feel. He had even ceased to think of what discovery might mean. His mind was quiet; he heard the forest chanting to him that there was nothing he need fear; and when he sat for a time that night upon the balcony a peace that was half an ecstasy stole in upon him from the mur muring woods and enfolded him. Cradled by it he slept dreamlessly. McKay did not go far from the inn that next day. The little wood danced gaily and beckoned him, but he paid no heed. Something whispered to wait, to keep the lake between him and it until word came of what lay or had lain there. And the peace still was on him. Only the old innkeeper seemed to grow uneasy as the hours went by. He went often to the landing, scanning the further shore. "It is strange," he said at last to McKay as the sun was dipping behind the summits. "Polleau was to see me here today. He never breaks his word. If he could not come he would have sent one of his sons." McKay nodded, carelessly. "There is another thing I do not understand," went on the old man. "I have seen no smoke from the lodge all day. It is as though they were not there." "Where could they be?" asked McKay, indifferently. "I do not know," the voice was more perturbed. "It all troubles me, M'sieu. Polleau is hard, yes; but he is my neighbor. Perhaps an accident-" "They would let you know soon enough if there was anything wrong," McKay said. "Perhaps, but-" the old man hesitated. "If he does not come tomorrow and again I see no smoke I will go to him," he ended. McKay felt a little shock run through him-tomorrow then he would know, definitely know, what it was that had happened in the little wood. "I would if I were you," he said. "I'd not wait too long either. After all-well, accidents do happen." "Will you go with me, M'sieu," asked the old man. "No!" whispered the warning voice within McKay. "No! Do not go!" "Sorry," he said, aloud. "But I've some writing to do. If you should need me send back your man. I'll come." And all that night he slept, again dreamlessly, while the crooning forest cradled him. The morning passed without sign from the opposite shore. An hour after noon he watched the old innkeeper and his man row across the lake. And suddenly McKay's composure was shaken, his serene certainty wavered. He unstrapped his field glasses and kept them on the pair until they had beached the boat and entered the coppice. His heart was beating uncomfortably, his hands felt hot and his lips dry. He scanned the shore. How long had they been in the wood? It must have been an hour! What were they doing there? What had they found? He looked at his watch, incredulously. Less than fifteen minutes had passed. Slowly the seconds ticked by. And it was all of an hour indeed before he saw them come out upon the shore and drag their boat into the water. McKay, throat curiously dry, a deafening pulse within his ears, steadied himself; forced himself to stroll leisurely down to the landing. "Everything all right?" he called as they were near. They did not answer; but as the skiff warped against the landing they looked up at him and on their faces were stamped horror and a great wonder. "They are dead, M'sieu," whispered the innkeeper. "Polleau and his two sons-all dead!" McKay's heart gave a great leap, a swift faintness took him. "Dead!" he cried. "What killed them?" "What but the trees, M'sieu?" answered the old man, and McKay thought his gaze dwelt upon him strangely. "The trees killed them. See-we went up the little path through the wood, and close to its end we found it blocked by fallen trees. The flies buzzed round those trees, M'sieu, so we searched there. They were under them, Polleau and his sons. A fir had fallen upon Polleau and had crushed in his chest. Another son we found beneath a fir and upturned birches. They had broken his back, and an eye had been torn out-but that was no new wound, the latter." He paused. "It must have been a sudden wind," said his man. "Yet I never knew of a wind like that must have been. There were no trees down except those that lay upon them. And of those it was as though they had leaped out of the ground! Yes, as though they had leaped out of the ground upon them. Or it was as though giants had torn them out for clubs. They were not broken- their roots were bare-" "But the other son-Polleau had two?"-try as he might, McKay could not keep the tremor out of his voice. "Pierre," said the old man, and again McKay felt that strange quality in his gaze. "He lay beneath a fir. His throat was torn out!" "His throat torn out!" whispered McKay, His knife! The knife that had been slipped into his hand by the shadowy shapes! "His throat was torn out," repeated the innkeeper. "And in it still was the broken branch that had done it. A broken branch, M'sieu, pointed as a knife. It must have caught Pierre as the fir fell and ripping through his throat-been broken off as the tree crashed." McKay stood, mind whirling in wild conjecture. "You said-a broken branch?" McKay asked through lips gone white. "A broken branch, M'sieu," the innkeeper's eyes searched him. "It was very plain-what it was that happened. Jacques," he turned to his man. "Go up to the house." He watched until the man shuffled out of sight. "Yet not all plain, M'sieu," he spoke low to McKay. "For in Pierre's hand I found-this." He reached into a pocket and drew out a button from which hung a strip of cloth. Cloth and button had once been part of that blood-stained coat which McKay had sunk within the lake; torn away no doubt when death had struck Polleau's son! McKay strove to speak. The old man raised his hand. Button and cloth fell from it, into the water. A wave took it and floated it away; another and another. They watched it silently until it had vanished. "Tell me nothing, M'sieu," the old innkeeper turned to him, "Polleau was hard and hard men, too, were his sons. The trees hated them. The trees killed them. And now the trees are happy. That is all. And the-souvenir -is gone. I have forgotten I saw it. Only M'sieu would better also-go." That night McKay packed. When dawn had broken he stood at his window, looked long at the little wood. It was awakening, stirring sleepily like drowsy delicate demoiselles. He drank in its beauty-for the last time; waved it farewell. McKay breakfasted well. He dropped into the driver's seat; set the engine humming. The old innkeeper and his wife, solicitous as ever for his welfare, bade him Godspeed. On both their faces was full friendliness-and in the old man's eyes somewhat of puzzled awe. His road lay through the thick forest. Soon inn and lake were far behind him. And singing went McKay, soft whisperings of leaves following him, glad chanting of needled pines; the voice of the forest tender, friendly, caressing-the forest pouring into him as farewell gift its peace, its happiness, its strength. 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