hey
were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All the passengers were
asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew his horn, but he
only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well here. I wonder if
those in there like it?'--and the stage coach vanished. Then two young
fellows came gallopping up on horseback. There's youth and spirit in
the blood here! thought I; and, indeed, they looked with a smile at
the moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I should not dislike a walk
here with the miller's Christine,' said one--and they flew past.

"The flowers scented the air; every breath of air was hushed: it
seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky that stretched above the
deep valley. A carriage rolled by. Six people were sitting in it. Four
of them were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat,
which would suit him admirably; the sixth turned to the coachman and
asked him if there were anything remarkable connected with yonder heap
of stones. 'No,' replied the coachman, 'it's only a heap of stones;
but the trees are remarkable.' 'How so?' 'Why, I'll tell you how they
are very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep,
and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those
trees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive
into the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable.'

"Now came a painter. He spoke not a word, but his eyes sparkled. He
began to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.
'Hold your tongues!' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of
all the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.
'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a
mirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of
Rossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden
she carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale
handsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her
eyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands
were folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father.' She herself could
not understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that
this minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her
memory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter
could portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her till
the morning dawn kissed her brow."

[Illustration: THE POOR GIRL