to the absence of forests, the earth can now be seen at its best."

I was about to thank him and turn back, but the thought of Yoletta, to
whom each heavy day now seemed a year, oppressed by heart, and I
continued standing motionless, with downcast eyes, wishing, yet fearing,
to speak.

"Why is your mind troubled, my son?" he said kindly.

"Father," I answered, that word which I now ventured to use for the
first time trembling from my lips, "the beauty of the earth is very much
to me, but I cannot help remembering that to Yoletta it is even more,
and the thought takes away all my pleasure. The flowers will fade, and
she will not see them."

"My son, I am glad to hear these words," he answered, somewhat to my
surprise, for I had greatly feared that I had adopted too bold a course.
"For I see now," he continued, "that this seeming indifference, which
gave me some pain, does not proceed from an incapacity on your part to
feel as we do, but from a tender love and compassion--that most precious
of all our emotions, which will serve to draw you closer to us. I have
also thought much of Yoletta during these beautiful days, grieving for
her, and this morning I have allowed her to go out into the hills, so
that during this day, at least, she will be able to share in our
pleasure."

Scarcely waiting for another word to be spoken, I flew back to the
house, anxious enough for a ride now. The little straw saddle seemed now
as comfortable as a couch, nor was the bridle missed; for, nerved with
that intense desire to find and speak to my love, I could have ridden