Every one whom the fragrance reached instantly saw before him his
little town, although the darkness had gently settled down over it.
He saw it as a village of flowers, where it was not house by house,
but garden by garden. He saw the cherry trees that raised their
white arches over the steep wood-path, the lilac clusters, the
swelling buds of glorious roses, the proud peonies, and the drifts
of flower-petals on the ground beneath the hawthorns.

The old Mayor was deep in thought. He was so wise and so old.
Seventy years had he reached, and for fifty he had managed the
affairs of the town. But that night be asked himself if he had done
right. "I had the town in my hand," he thought, "but I have not
made it anything great." And he thought of its great past, and was
the more uncertain if he had done right.

He stood in the market-place, looking out over the river. A boat
came with oars. A few villagers were coming home from a picnic.
Girls in light dresses held the oars. They steered in under the
arch of the bridge, but there the current was strong and they were
drawn back. There was a violent struggle. Their slender bodies were
bent backwards, until they lay even with the edge of the boat.
Their soft arm-muscles tightened. The oars bent like bows. The
noise of laughter and cries filled the air. Again and again the
current conquered. The boat was driven back. And when at last the
girls had to land at the market quay, and leave the boat for men to
take home, how red and vexed they were, and how they laughed! How
their laughter echoed down the street! How their broad, shady hats,
their light, fluttering summer dresses enlivened the quiet night.

The old Mayor saw in his mind's eye, for in the darkness he could