<p class="h2"><SPAN name="XLI" id="XLI"></SPAN>XLI.</p>
<p class="h2a">LEARNING TO FORGET.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="smcap">Amy's</span> lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own
it till long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,
the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they
act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half
the credit of it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie
went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several
weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved
him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was
nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants
could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received;
pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 503]</span>
his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression,
"I despise you;" "Go and do something splendid that will
<i>make</i> her love you."</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon
brought himself to confess that he <i>had</i> been selfish and lazy; but then
when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of
vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections
were quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a
faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously.
Jo <i>wouldn't</i> love him, but he might <i>make</i> her respect and admire
him by doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had
not spoilt his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's
advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the
aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred; that being done,
he felt that he was ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on."</p>
<p class="indent">As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem
which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.
Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless
and moody, and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had
musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish
himself. But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied
in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered
that the Requiem was beyond him, just at present. It was evident
that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed
clarifying; for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find
himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas
ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop
to tragic composition for the time being.</p>
<p class="indent">Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning;
but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted
Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with
tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory
turned traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl,
would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her
in the most unsentimental aspects,—beating mats with her head tied
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 504]</span>
up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing
cold water over his passion <i>� la</i> Gummidge,—and an irresistible laugh
spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't
be put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a
"Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as
became a distracted composer.</p>
<p class="indent">When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel
to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most
obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had
golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily
before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white
ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any
name, but he took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as
well he might; for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the
sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated
any mortal woman.</p>
<p class="indent">Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas
and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled
state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal
and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.
"It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see
what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that
it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was,
it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented
with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work
to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that
every one who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one
of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre,
he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring up
at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly
back again; then suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one,
and, as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,—
"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so.
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 505]</span>
That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her,
and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"</p>
<p class="indent">That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to
wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an
eligible opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed
it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan
is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands.
The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within,
but he withstood them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he
valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather,
and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the
women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.</p>
<p class="indent">Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it;
boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women
must not expect miracles." I dare say <i>you</i> don't, Mrs. Grundy, but
it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have
a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard
of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys,
the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if
they must; but mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop
a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing,
and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the
virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it <i>is</i> a
feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it
half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings
would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little
lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves, and are not
ashamed to own it.</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb
all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered
it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got
angry with himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of
ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their
will in spite of us. Laurie's heart <i>wouldn't</i> ache; the wound persisted
in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying
to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 506]</span>
this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted
with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture
of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a
tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his
lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a
comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him
into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish
passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender,
a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in
time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.</p>
<p class="indent">As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was
before him:—</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister
he took the other, and was happy."</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,—</p>
<p class="indent">"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and
if that fails, why, then—"</p>
<p class="indent">Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote
to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was
the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't
she, and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an
answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a
fever of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually
on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was
wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word "love" again.
Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always to
keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript
she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse; she was
coming home in the spring, and there was no need of saddening the
remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God, but
Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick,
or anxious.</p>
<p class="indent">"So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home
for her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 507]</span>
Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished
some weeks before.</p>
<p class="indent">But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
Tumbling about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and
business documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and
in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up
with one of her blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead
roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them
neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the
ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 508]</span>
letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed
with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the
rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b177.png" id="b177.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b177.png" width-obs="400" height-obs="487" alt="Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger" title="Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger" /></div>
<p class="indent">The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered,
for Amy <i>was</i> homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters
flew to and fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring.
Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to
Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately
to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy
would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of
her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes
of "our boy."</p>
<p class="indent">Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had
once decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No,
thank you," kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage
failed her, and she found that something more than money and
position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart
so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow,
but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's
face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as
her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry
for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she
could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want
Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature; she didn't care to
be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable
woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things
she said, but took them so beautifully, and was kinder than ever.
His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular,
and were not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It
was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow
was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stony-hearted.
She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him;
it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to
have such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 509]</span>
other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him
like a brother.</p>
<p class="indent">If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never
lectured now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested
in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and
sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences,
and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few
brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in
their sisters' pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when
short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that
Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did
grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had
much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare
say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at
Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her,—a stalwart
knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with
his hat over his eyes, or a curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading
down a ball-room on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces
being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe,
but not altogether satisfactory.</p>
<p class="indent">Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think
what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had
gone to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved,
as he said to himself, with a venerable air,—</p>
<p class="indent">"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've
been through it all, and I can sympathize."</p>
<p class="indent">With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged
his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's
letter luxuriously.</p>
<p class="indent">While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at
home; but the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy,
and when the next found her, the grass was green above her sister.
The sad news met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 510]</span>
Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of
Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted
to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for,
since it was too late to say good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and
let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy; she
longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake,
waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.</p>
<p class="indent">He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them
both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him.
The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his
fellow-pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full
of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.</p>
<p class="indent">He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little
quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were
living <i>en pension</i>. The <i>gar�on</i> was in despair that the whole family
had gone to take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond
mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would
give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present
her. But monsieur could not wait even "a flash of time," and, in the
middle of the speech, departed to find mademoiselle himself.</p>
<p class="indent">A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow
of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the
wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work,
or console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here
that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and
heavy eyes, thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come.
She did not hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause
in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden.
He stood a minute, looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one
had ever seen before,—the tender side of Amy's character. Everything
about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,—the blotted letters
in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain
and patience in her face; even the little ebony cross at her throat
seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it
as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 511]</span>
would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and
saw him; for, dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming, in a
tone of unmistakable love and longing,—</p>
<p class="indent">"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b178.png" id="b178.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b178.png" width-obs="505" height-obs="400" alt="O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come" title="O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come" /></div>
<p class="indent">I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly
over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the
only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him
happy. He did not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for
both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.</p>
<p class="indent">In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her
tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of
sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the
future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned
rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting.</p>
<p class="indent">"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 512]</span>
to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I
was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to
speak quite naturally.</p>
<p class="indent">"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to
comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel,
and—" He could not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all
of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay
Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but
he did not dare; so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic
squeeze that was better than words.</p>
<p class="indent">"You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly.
"Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread
the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about
it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay.
You needn't go right back, need you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not if you want me, dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like
one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a
little while."</p>
<p class="indent">Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was
full, that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just
what she wanted,—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation
she needed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick!
I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and
walk about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said,
in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied
on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down
the sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease
upon his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm
to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk
delightfully for her alone.</p>
<p class="indent">The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and
seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with
nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry
away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 513]</span>
this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the
sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place; and
when an unromantic dinner-bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she
left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau
garden.</p>
<p class="indent">The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
all,—the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart,
I never thought of such a thing!"</p>
<p class="indent">With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay,
and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good
than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her
aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her
friend, and did it with more than her usual success.</p>
<p class="indent">At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay,
Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying,
in the most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did,
and followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the
change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him,
being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.</p>
<p class="indent">The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills;
the fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
moody mists; the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring
ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash
away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look
benignly down upon them, saying, "Little children, love one another."</p>
<p class="indent">In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and, as
he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself
for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost
the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 514]</span>
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well.
His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked
back upon it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it
away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he
could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing he
resolved should be as calm and simple as possible; there was no need
of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her;
she knew it without words, and had given him his answer long ago.
It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he
knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first
little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in
making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every
hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put
an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.</p>
<p class="indent">He had rather imagined that the <i>d�nouement</i> would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled
on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and
the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the
bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like
white-winged gulls.</p>
<p class="indent">They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon,
and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his
"H�loise." Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story,
and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own.
Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause
that fell between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning
on his oars, with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily,
merely for the sake of saying something,—</p>
<p class="indent">"You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row: it will do me
good; for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 515]</span>
room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat
won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.</p>
<p class="indent">Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the
offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an
oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things; and, though
she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the
boat went smoothly through the water.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b179.png" id="b179.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b179.png" width-obs="534" height-obs="400" alt="How well we pull together" title="How well we pull together" /></div>
<p class="indent">"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected
to silence just then.</p>
<p class="indent">"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will
you, Amy?" very tenderly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, Laurie," very low.</p>
<p class="indent">Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty
little <i>tableau</i> of human love and happiness to the dissolving views
reflected in the lake.</p>
<hr class="hr2" />
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 516]</span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />