of the battle of Poltava. He read this on the walls, on the crumbling wall plaster, on broken bricks and tiles found by him in the garden; the entire history of the house and garden was inscribed upon them. He peopled the little deadhouse with tens and hundreds of long deceased men, and glancing attentively into its little cellar-window in the corner of the garden, he discovered in the uneven reflection of light on the old, rainbow-tinted and dirty glass familiar lines seen by him some time during his life on portraits.
Meanwhile there came a period of fine, clear weather; the patients spent many days in the open air. Their portion of the garden, wherever possible, was planted with flowers. The superintendent set to work all who showed any aptitude; whole days they dug and sprinkled the paths with sand; they weeded and watered the flower-beds; cucumbers, watermelons and cantaloupes were cared for by the same hands. A corner of the garden was planted densely with cherry trees; here, too, stretched rows of elms; in the centre, upon a little elevation, bloomed the garden's prettiest rosebush; bright flowers grew along the edges of the place,
