But the forest and its lovely undergrowths, its heaths and creepers, its ferns and periwinkles, its lichen and mosses had thrown themselves on the frozen lava, had decked and softened its wild shapes, had reared oaks and pines amid the clefts of basalt, and planted all the crannies below with lighter, featherier green, till in the dim forest light all that had once been terror had softened into grace, and Nature herself had turned her freak to poetry.
And throughout the 'Sassetto' there reigned a peculiar and delicious coolness--the blended breath of mountain and forest.

The smooth path that Eleanor and Lucy had been following wound in and out among the strange rock-masses, bearing the signs of having been made at great cost and difficulty.

Soon, also, benches of grey stone began to mark the course of it at frequent intervals.
'We must live here!' cried Lucy in enchantment.

'Let me spread the shawl for you--there!--just in front of that glimpse of the river.' They had turned a corner of the path.

Lucy, whose gaze was fixed upon the blue distance towards Orvieto, heard a hurried word from Eleanor, looked round, and saw Father Benecke just rising from a seat in front.
A shock ran through her.