and heat—rather do I set my feet on a barren shore, where no living thing can come; where I can look north, south, east, and west, and see not one speck of aught to break the dull grey monotony. But I did not come out to think dismal thoughts. . . . The world looks very fair this morning, like a great, softly splendid emerald set about with sparkling precious stones. The
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery."
speckle the meadows and banks, exquisitely pure and delicate, in their first robe of thousand, thousand shades of green and yellow; so young and fresh are the leaves yet that they look as though a rough hand would brush the bloom from their surface. The light quivers and plays hide-and-seek with them, the shadows dance on the grass, as though they were tripping a measure to music from unseen fairies, the bees and waters mingle in a low symphony, bearing up the exulting song of the birds, who sing not because they are bid, or because they have anything in particular to say, but because they are happy—their little bodies are full of rapture, and it overflows in their voices. Down here in the woodland, the earth is carpeted with pale azure blue-bells, that seem but a reflection of the sky overhead; and among them spring the wind-flowers swaying their pinkish white heads with every passing breeze; the celandine glistens like gold in the sunlight, and the frail stitchwort, pearliest of beauties, opens her snow-white breast to the soft air; the lords and ladies, stiff and tall, overlook all the little woodland flowers, like a proud king and queen set to watch over the revels of the humbler folk.
A clash of bells rings out across the fields, and I lift my hands to my ears, trembling violently. Since a certain Christmas morning, three years and more ago, the sound of those bells has been to me like the touch of a coarse hand on an unhealed wound, and
