He did not know that it could be kept.

By the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back.

He left the valley and went on his wandering way again.

But, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.
Slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden.
As the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the Lake of Como.

There he found the loveliness of a dream.