he not dreaming, here in the winter, the loveliest of all
dreams, that he was young again? In the joyous growth of this
snow-white glory he had forgotten all pain and decay, forgotten the
moss on his bark, the rottenness of his roots was concealed. A rickety
gate had been taken from its place and was propped against the fence,
broken and useless. The artist hand of winter had sought it out too,
and glorified it, and it was now an architectural masterpiece. The
slanting black gate-posts were a couple of young dandies, with hats on
one side and jaunty air. The old, grey, mossy rails--one could not
imagine Paradise within a more beautiful enclosure. Their blemishes
had in this resurrection become their greatest beauty. Their knots and
crannies were the chief building ground for the snow, each hole filled
up by a donation of heavenly crystals from the clouds. Their
disfiguring splinters were now covered and kissed, shrouded and
decorated; all blemishes were obliterated in the universal whiteness.
A tumbledown moss-grown hut by the roadside--now more extravagantly
adorned than the richest bride in the world, covered over from
heaven's own lap in such abundance that the white snow wreaths hung
half a yard beyond the roof; in some places folded back with
consummate art. The grey-black wall under the snow wreaths looked like
an old Persian fabric. It seemed ready to appear in a Shakespearean
drama. The background of mountains and hills gleamed in the sunlight.

In the midst of all this Ella seemed to hear two little cries of
"Mamma, mamma!" When she looked round for her companion he was sitting
on the sledge, quite overcome, while tears flowed down his cheeks.

They drove on again, but slowly. "I remember this muddy road," said
he; his voice sounded very sad. "The trees shaded it so that it was
hardly ever dry, but now it is beautiful."

She turned and raised her head towards him. "Ah! sing a little," she
said.

He did not answer at once, and she regretted that she had asked him;
at length he said:

"I was thinking of it, but I became so agitated; do not speak for a
moment and then perhaps I can--the old winter song, that is to say."

She understood that he could not do so until he completely realised
it. These silent enthusiasts were indeed fastidious about what was
genuine. Most things were not genuine enough for them. That is why
they are so prone to intoxicate themselves; they wish to get away, to
form a world for th