thout as yet being able to define it?

I dare not hope.

Hitherto, events have not justified me any more than my reason.

The swift walker goes alone upon his road; there is never any but his
shadow to follow him.

I know how conscious we are of our weakness when we try to bring our
energies into action; and I know that my pride will suffer, for I have
never seen my footprint on the sand without pitying myself....

2

Those who are close to our soul have no need of our words to understand
it; and those who are far removed from it do not hear us speak. Then for
whom do we speak, alas?

The blackbird's song describes precious waves in the still air; pearls
are scattered over the blue sky.

The lily's whiteness ascends like a fervent prayer; the bees make haste;
the careless butterflies enjoy their little day. Near me, a tiny ant
exhausts herself in a task too heavy for her strength. Lowly and
excellent counsellors, does not each of them set me the example of her
humble efforts?

CHAPTER II

1

It was yesterday. When I woke, the cornfield under my windows, which
seemed a steadfast sea of gold, had already half disappeared. The
scythes flashed in the sun; and the ripe corn fell in great unresisting
masses.

The smallest details of that meeting are present in my memory; and I do
not weary of living every moment of it over again. The air was cool. I
still feel the caress of my sleeves, which the wind set fluttering over
my arms. I drank the breeze in great gulps. It filled me, it revived me
from head to foot. My skirts hampered me and I went slowly, holding my
hat in both hands before my face and vaguely guided by the little
patches of landscape that showed through the loose straw: a glimpse of
blue sky, of swaying tree-tops, smoking chimneys and a dim horizon.

I have come to the far end of the field, where the reapers are. It is
the hour of the first meal. The men have laid down their scythes, the
girls have ceased to bind the sheaves and all are sitting on the slope
beside the road.

Curious, I go closer still. A young woman, whom the others call
"mademoiselle," is kneeling a few steps away from me, in front of the
provision-basket; she has her back turned to me and is distributing
slices of bread and cream-cheese to the labourers; she hands the jug
filled with cider to the one nearest her, who drinks and sends it round.
For one second the movement of her arm passes between the sky and my
gaze