"
"That will do for size," he said, laughing. "Now the kind:
spruce--larch--hemlock--pine--which shall it be?"
"It shall be none of them!" she answered, after a little waiting. "It
shall be the Christmas Tree of the uttermost North where the reindeer
are harnessed and the Great White Sleigh starts--fir. The old
Christmas stories like fir best. Old faiths seem to lodge in it
longest. And deepest mystery darkens the heart of it," she added.
"Fir it shall be!" he said. "Choose the tree."
"I have chosen."
She stopped and delicately touched his wrist with the finger tips of
one white-gloved hand, bidding him stand beside her.
"That one," she said, pointing down.
The brook, watering the roots of the evergreens in summer gratefully,
but now lying like a band of samite, jewel-crusted, made a loop near
the middle point of the lawn, creating a tiny island; and on this
island, aloof from its fellows and with space for the growth of its
boughs, stood a perfect fir tree: strong-based, thick-set, tapering
faultlessly, star-pointed, gathering more youth as it gathered more
years--a tame dweller on the lawn but descended from forests blurred
with wildness and lapped by low washings of the planet's primeval
ocean.
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