The change was grateful, the distant murmur of the excited settlement
came only as the soothing sound of wind among the leaves. The pure air
of the pines that filled every cranny of the quiet school-room,
and seemed to disperse all taint of human tenancy, made the far-off
celebrations as unreal as a dream. The only reality of his life was
here.

He took from his pocket a few letters one of which was worn and soiled
with frequent handling. He re-read it in a half methodical, half patient
way, as if he were waiting for some revelation it inspired, which
was slow that afternoon in coming. At other times it had called up
a youthful enthusiasm which was wont to transfigure his grave and
prematurely reserved face with a new expression. To-day the revelation
and expression were both wanting. He put the letter back with a slight
sigh, that sounded so preposterous in the silent room that he could
not forego an embarrassed smile. But the next moment he set himself
seriously to work on his correspondence.

Presently he stopped; once or twice he had been overtaken by a vague
undefinable sense of pleasure, even to the dreamy halting of his pen.
It was a sensation in no way connected with the subject of his
correspondence, or even his previous reflections--it was partly
physical, and yet it was in some sense suggestive. It must be the
intoxicating effect of the woodland air. He even fancied he had noticed
it before, at the same hour when the sun was declining and the fresh
odors of the undergrowth were rising. It certainly was a perfume. He
raised his eyes. There lay the cause on the desk before him--a little
nosegay of wild Californian myrtle encircling a rose-bud which had
escaped his notice.