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 roofs of Pakarae. Just now, in all the glory of its spring verdure, it looked like a stripe of the freshest and softest green velvet, only here and there the exquisite surface was roughened by a little outcrop of grey, volcanic rock. A little below one such lichened ledge, on which Philippe had seated himself, there ran a belt of pine-trees; a snow peak soared above them in the distance across the harbour; and, beyond their spiry tips and between their latticed boughs, the lake spread out its blue, bloomy sheen, full of violet and green hill-mirrorings. There were cows in the paddock; cows with richly shining skins, of fawn and white and chestnut; and one of them, a velvety black creature, wore a bell about her neck, that tinkled musically as she browsed. The little bright, brown creek, on its headlong way through the paddock from the summits above to the sea beneath, tinkled also, and sprang from rock to rock with a shining and merry delight. And the sun was cloudless, the bright air was thin, and crisp, and pure; there was an Alpine look and feeling everywhere—it all was really very like Switzerland. Philippe, as he sat there resting in the sun, began mistily to wonder which of the spring Alp-flowers were out yet, and actually looked about him for some, in the fresh, green grass. For the little thin white crocus that follows the heel of the melting snows it was of course too late, and for the fairy fringe of the violet soldanella; but a cowslip or two, surely? some gay little bright pink primula, or sulphur-coloured anemone? above all, at least one gentian, one bright little star of heaven’s own blue, to look up at one with the face of a friend upon this sunny, green Alp?