He threw himself down, and let his eyes dream upon the delicate blades and stalks and leafage which one so seldom regards.

If he chose to gaze further, there were fair tracts of shadowed sward, with sunny gleamings scattered where the trees were thinner, and above him the heaven of clustering leaves, here of impenetrable dark-green, there translucent-golden.

A rustling whisper, in the air and on the ground, was the only voice that came thither.
He had set himself to think of Beatrice.

He purposed writing her a long letter to-night, wherein he would do his best to make her understand the light in which the past appeared to him, and how little those memories had to do with the present and its love and its duty.

To be sure, he could not use the words of very truth.