Chapter XIII 



AT THE SPRING 



HE path across the fields 

 is so well worn that one 

 can find his way along its 

 devious course by night almost 

 as easily as by day. I have gone 

 over it at all hours, and have 

 never returned without some fresh and 

 cheering memory for other and less fa- 

 voured days. The fields across which it 

 leads one, with the unfailing suggestion of 

 something better beyond, are undulating, 

 and dotted here and there with browsing 

 cattle. The landscape is full of pastoral 

 repose and charm the charm of familiar 

 things that are touched with old memories, 

 and upon whose natural beauty there rests 

 the reflected light of days that have become 

 idyllic. No one can walk along a country 

 road over which as a boy he heard the 

 daily invitation of the schoolhouse bell 

 without discovering at every turn some 

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