Eva arranged the flowers brought by the gardener as gracefully as
possible, and then asked Sister Perpetua to go to walk with her, telling
her father and sister that she wished to be out of doors with the nun for
a short time.

She told no one what she meant to do. Her mother's favourite flowers
should be her own last gift to her.

Old Martsche received the order to send Ortel, the youngest manservant in
the household, a good-natured fellow eighteen years old, with a basket,
to wait for her and Sister Perpetua at the weir.

After the thunderstorm of the day before the air was specially fresh and
pure; it was a pleasure merely to breathe. The sun shone brightly from
the cloudless sky. It was a delightful walk through the meadows and
forest over the footpath which passed near the very Dutzen pool, where
Katterle the day before had resolved to seek death. All Nature seemed
revived as though by a refreshing bath. Larks flew heavenward with a low
sweet song, from amidst the grain growing luxuriantly for the winter
harvest, and butterflies hovered above the blossoming fields. Slender
dragon-flies and smaller busy insects flitted buzzing from flower to
flower, sucking honey from the brimming calyxes and bearing to others the
seeds needed to form fruit. The songs of finches and the twitter of
white-throats echoed from many a bush by the wayside.

In the forest they were surrounded by delightful shade animated by
hundreds of loud and low voices far away and close at hand. Countless
buds were opening under the moss and ferns, strawberries were ripening
close to the ground, and the delicate leafy boughs of the bilberry bushes
were full of juicy green oared fruit.

Near the weir they heard a loud clanking and echoing, but it had a very
different effect from the noise of the city; instead of exciting
curiosity there was something soothing in the regularity of the blows of
the iron hammer and the monotonous croaking of the frogs.

In this part of the forest, where the fairest flowers grew, the morning
dew still hung glittering from the blossoms and grasses. Here it was
secluded, yet full of life, and amidst the wealth of sounds in which
might be heard the tapping of the woodpecker, the cry of the lapwing, and
the call of the distant wood-pigeon, it was so still and peaceful that
Eva's heart grew lighter in spite of her grief.

Sister Perpetua spoke only to answer a question. She sympathised with
Eva's thought when she frankly