Oftentimes at sunrise or at sunset a ray of bright sunlight would

penetrate between two sheer surfaces of lava, that might have been
split apart by a hatchet, to the very depths of that pleasant little

garden, where it would play in the waters of the pool, like a beam of
golden light which gleams through the chinks of a shutter into a room

in Spain, that has been carefully darkened for a siesta. When the sun
rose above the old crater that some antediluvian revolution had filled

with water, its rocky sides took warmer tones, the extinct volcano
glowed again, and its sudden heat quickened the sprouting seeds and

vegetation, gave color to the flowers, and ripened the fruits of this
forgotten corner of the earth.

As Raphael reached it, he noticed several cows grazing in the pasture-
land; and when he had taken a few steps towards the water, he saw a

little house built of granite and roofed with shingle in the spot
where the meadowland was at its widest. The roof of this little

cottage harmonized with everything about it; for it had long been
overgrown with ivy, moss, and flowers of no recent date. A thin smoke,

that did not scare the birds away, went up from the dilapidated
chimney. There was a great bench at the door between two huge honey-

suckle bushes, that were pink with blossom and full of scent. The
walls could scarcely be seen for branches of vine and sprays of rose

and jessamine that interlaced and grew entirely as chance and their
own will bade them; for the inmates of the cottage seemed to pay no

attention to the growth which adorned their house, and to take no care
of it, leaving to it the fresh capricious charm of nature.

Some clothes spread out on the gooseberry bushes were drying in the
sun. A cat was sitting on a machine for stripping hemp; beneath it lay

a newly scoured brass caldron, among a quantity of potato-parings. On
the other side of the house Raphael saw a sort of barricade of dead

thorn-bushes, meant no doubt to keep the poultry from scratching up
the vegetables and pot-herbs. It seemed like the end of the earth. The

dwelling was like some bird's-nest ingeniously set in a cranny of the
rocks, a clever and at the same time a careless bit of workmanship. A

simple and kindly nature lay round about it; its rusticity was
genuine, but there was a charm like that of poetry in it; for it grew

and throve at a thousand miles' distance from our elaborate and
conventional poetry. It was like none of our conceptions; it was a

spontaneous growth, a masterpiece due to chance.
As Raphael reached the place, the sunlight fell across it from right

to left, bringing out all the colors of its plants and trees; the
yellowish or gray bases of the crags, the different shades of the

green leaves, the masses of flowers, pink, blue, or white, the
climbing plants with their bell-like blossoms, and the shot velvet of

the mosses, the purple-tinted blooms of the heather,--everything was
either brought into relief or made fairer yet by the enchantment of

the light or by the contrasting shadows; and this was the case most of
all with the sheet of water, wherein the house, the trees, the granite

peaks, and the sky were all faithfully reflected. Everything had a
radiance of its own in this delightful picture, from the sparkling

mica-stone to the bleached tuft of grass hidden away in the soft
shadows; the spotted cow with its glossy hide, the delicate water-

plants that hung down over the pool like fringes in a nook where blue
or emerald colored insects were buzzing about, the roots of trees like

a sand-besprinkled shock of hair above grotesque faces in the flinty
rock surface,--all these things made a harmony for the eye.

The odor of the tepid water; the scent of the flowers, and the breath
of the caverns which filled the lonely place gave Raphael a sensation

that was almost enjoyment. Silence reigned in majesty over these
woods, which possibly are unknown to the tax-collector; but the

barking of a couple of dogs broke the stillness all at once; the cows
turned their heads towards the entrance of the valley, showing their

moist noses to Raphael, stared stupidly at him, and then fell to
browsing again. A goat and her kid, that seemed to hang on the side of

the crags in some magical fashion, capered and leapt to a slab of
granite near to Raphael, and stayed there a moment, as if to seek to

know who he was. The yapping of the dogs brought out a plump child,
who stood agape, and next came a white-haired old man of middle

height. Both of these two beings were in keeping with the
surroundings, the air, the flowers, and the dwelling. Health appeared

to overflow in this fertile region; old age and childhood thrived
there. There seemed to be, about all these types of existence, the

freedom and carelessness of the life of primitive times, a happiness
of use and wont that gave the lie to our philosophical platitudes, and

wrought a cure of all its swelling passions in the heart.
The old man belonged to the type of model dear to the masculine brush

of Schnetz. The countless wrinkles upon his brown face looked as if
they would be hard to the touch; the straight nose, the prominent

cheek-bones, streaked with red veins like a vine-leaf in autumn, the
angular features, all were characteristics of strength, even where

strength existed no longer. The hard hands, now that they toiled no
longer, had preserved their scanty white hair, his bearing was that of

an absolutely free man; it suggested the thought that, had he been an
Italian, he would have perhaps turned brigand, for the love of the

liberty so dear to him. The child was a regular mountaineer, with the
black eyes that can face the sun without flinching, a deeply tanned

complexion, and rough brown hair. His movements were like a bird's--
swift, decided, and unconstrained; his clothing was ragged; the white,

fair skin showed through the rents in his garments. There they both
stood in silence, side by side, both obeying the same impulse; in both

faces were clear tokens of an absolutelyidentical and idle life. The
old man had adopted the child's amusements, and the child had fallen

in with the old man's humor; there was a sort of tacit agreement
between two kinds of feebleness, between failing powers well-nigh

spent and powers just about to unfold themselves.
Very soon a woman who seemed to be about thirty years old appeared on

the threshold of the door, spinning as she came. She was an
Auvergnate, a high-colored, comfortable-looking, straightforward sort

of person, with white teeth; her cap and dress, the face, full figure,
and general appearance, were of the Auvergne peasant stamp. So was her

dialect; she was a thorough embodiment of her district; its
hardworking ways, its thrift, ignorance, and heartiness all met in

her.
She greeted Raphael, and they began to talk. The dogs quieted down;

the old man went and sat on a bench in the sun; the child followed his
mother about wherever she went, listening without saying a word, and

staring at the stranger.
"You are not afraid to live here, good woman?"

"What should we be afraid of, sir? When we bolt the door, who ever
could get inside? Oh, no, we aren't afraid at all. And besides," she

said, as she brought the Marquis into the principal room in the house,
"what should thieves come to take from us here?"

She designated the room as she spoke; the smoke-blackened walls, with
some brilliant pictures in blue, red, and green, an "End of Credit," a

Crucifixion, and the "Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard" for their sole
ornament; the furniture here and there, the old wooden four-post

bedstead, the table with crooked legs, a few stools, the chest that
held the bread, the flitch that hung from the ceiling, a jar of salt,

a stove, and on the mantleshelf a few discolored yellow plaster
figures. As he went out again Raphael noticed a man half-way up the

crags, leaning on a hoe, and watching the house with interest.
"That's my man, sir," said the Auvergnate, unconsciously smiling in

peasant fashion; "he is at work up there."
"And that old man is your father?"

"Asking your pardon, sir, he is my man's grandfather. Such as you see
him, he is a hundred and two, and yet quite lately he walked over to

Clermont with our little chap! Oh, he has been a strong man in his
time; but he does nothing now but sleep and eat and drink. He amuses

himself with the little fellow. Sometimes the child trails him up the
hillsides, and he will just go up there along with him."

Valentin made up his mind immediately. He would live between this
child and old man, breathe the same air; eat their bread, drink the

same water, sleep with them, make the blood in his veins like theirs.
It was a dying man's fancy. For him the prime model, after which the

customary existence of the individual should be shaped, the real
formula for the life of a human being, the only true and possible

life, the life-ideal, was to become one of the oysters adhering to
this rock, to save his shell a day or two longer by paralyzing the

power of death. One profoundlyselfish thought took possession of him,
and the whole universe was swallowed up and lost in it. For him the