WHITE BIRCHES
Christopher, death isn't evil, if it isn't the end of things. And I am going to believe that it is not the end ..."
Christopher went into town before lunch, and later Anne sat alone on the stone bench in her grove of birches. They were serene and still in the gold of the afternoon. Yet last night they had writhed in the storm. She, too, had been swept by a storm. ... She missed her playmate—but she had a sense of relief in the absence of her tempestuous lover.
Ridgeley came home that night with news of Christopher's sudden departure. "He found telegrams. He told me to say 'good-bye' to you."
"I am sorry," Anne said, and meant it. Sorry that it had to be—but being sorry could not change it.
After dinner Ridgeley had a call to make, and Anne went up to bed. But she was awake when her husband came in, and the thin line of light showed. She waited until she heard the boom of water in his bath, and then she slipped out of bed and opened the door between. She was propped up in her pillows when he reappeared in his blue bathrobe.
"Hello," he called, "did you want me?"
"Yes, Ridgeley."
He came in. "Anything the matter?"
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