And she knew nothing of time, and
never asked herself to what she owed this joy.
The utter forgetfulness of everything that came upon her when she was
alone was almost incredible. One evening she spent two hours in walking
a distance she might easily have done in forty minutes. She had been to
see a sick person, and when she found herself in the fresh air, after
having spent some time in a small, close room, the dream-like feeling
came over her, and her spirit was uplifted with inexpressible gladness.
The summer air was sweet and warm, a light rain was falling, and she
took off her hat and wandered on, looking up, but noting nothing, and
singing Schubert's "Hark! hark! the lark," to herself softly as she
came. A man standing at a cottage door begged her to go in and shelter.
She looked at him, and her face was radiant--the rain-drops sparkled on
her hair. He was only a working man, "clay--and common clay," but the
light in her eyes passed through him, and the memory of her stayed with
him, a thing apart from his daily life, held sacred, and not to be
described. A man might live a hundred years and never see a woman look
like that.
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