afar. The air was intensely redolent with intoxicating freshness. . . .
Lucy was looking fixedly into the distance,—her eye did not take in the details, but her soul imbibed its full import, and felt the whole summer day within itself. Under its influence her spirit bent in indolence, but she felt blissful,—it was the feeling of an animal that after a cheerless, cold winter is warmed by the hot swn. She did not recall what had lately happened, nor thought what would come in the future,—but, compressing her long eyelashes, she kept on looking and looking. . . .
Reader, only a woman knows how to live a real life! For her there is no past; only at times there flashes an old picture through her spirit, while feeling is wisely silent. For her, too, there exists no “to-morrow,” except when it is to bring her a happy moment. A woman knows how to be happy. To us, happiness is a flighty dream, a flash of light. Her delicate nerves seize the flighty dream,
