A mist sweeps over the crystalline cloud, and where it grows clear again
the scene is changed to a wild hill-side. Scarlet and blue flowers
intermingle in the distance; in the foreground lies a single poppy,
withered and dying. Slowly, beside it a lily grows up; as it grows the
fading poppy is stirred, touched by its leaves; and the tiny bells
waving over it inspire new life and vigour, till at length, grown whole
and fresh, it is loosened from the brown uptorn roots, and floats
upwards, to bloom more beautiful in Paradise.

Again the mist passes over the light picture and changes it. A woodland
scene is painted there now. Amid the fern and moss and twigs under the
trees, wild flowers are blowing. A pathway intersects the little wood,
and across it shadows of the trees fall, with sunlight between. In the
foremost patch of sunshine, at the edge of the path, is a sprinkling of
anemone leaves. And there amongst them a delicate blossom, half crushed
by the superincumbent weight of moss, the fallen leaves of last year,
and tiny, lichen-covered twigs. The white, transparent petals are soiled
and deformed, thrust down to the earth. As Hazel looks, regretting that
she has not the power to stretch forth her hand and clear away the
destructive weight, the leaves and twigs tremble, and are uplifted, and
fall away from the slender plant, for close beside it a hardy little
fern frond slowly uncurls itself and arises. The frail blossom stirs
slightly, released from the overwhelming pressure; but has no strength
to do more. Oh, for water to revive it! And, lo! from the fair green
fern drops of dew embosomed there are shed and scattered over the
downcast head. They are drunk in, and by degrees the drooping cup is
raised to the friendly fern. And then, the straight young frond, itself
ever growing, waves aside in a natural, graceful sweep, and allows the
sunshine in all its strong radiance and reviving force to fall full on
the flower. And the half-closed bell joyously expanding, grows white and