She saw the picture of a man,—it was a poor woodcutter,—who was pushing a wheelbarrow full of wood up Vysočany Hill. She plainly saw his strength slowly leaving him, the dark veins in his swarthy temples were filling up and beating fast, and she saw his knees tremble,—and that hill was still towering above, and the summit was not to be seen. Warm drops of perspiration trickled down Lucy’s forehead and cheeks, she breathed heavily, as if she herself were pushing that load. She opened her eyes again, and drew a deep breath,—the picture disappeared.
There occurred to her a few bars from familiar songs, and a few words that went with them, strange, incoherent words, and it all sounded in her soul endless and monotonous, like the telegraph wires in some deserted garden on a murky November day.
Only rarely a sharp, nameless feeling, like the prick of a fine needle, stung her,—but
