the gleam of light, and gourmandize on every atom of it. A yielding and soft soul lives on that dream and light, like a flower whose leaves turn their whole surface towards the rays of the sun. If it is uprooted and transplanted, it at once sends its roots into the new soil, and with its leaves drinks the sun, the sun. . . .
The coach reached the summit of the hill. All around lay the expanse of a level country. At both sides of the road stood the grain in greyish-green waves. There the rape seemed to shine with its ducat hue. In the straight-drawn rows of beets and potatoes stood laboring people; they shaded their eyes with their hands, conversed with each other, and looked into the road.
The horses began to trot. An endless avenue of chestnuts, full of pyramidal blossoms, lay before thern, as if opened for their reception. A pleasant, greenish shade fell into the carriage. The old lady looked at the country through a black lorgnette. The
