"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.

At each Christmas for several years they had been tempted to cut this
tree, but had spared it for its conspicuous beauty at the edge of the
thicket.

"That one," she now said, pointing down. "This is the last time. Let
us have the best of things while we may! Is it not always the perfect
that is demanded for sacrifice?"

His glance had already gone forward eagerly to the tree, and he
started toward it.

Descending, they stepped across the brook to the island and went up