Charville has not changed very much, after all. Something has been done, but it remains still almost the same picturesque, shadowy, dirty old town. Down by the stone fountain the women chatter and gossip as shrilly as ever, and drown the undertone of the river; the sun shines softly upon the yellow cornfields, and the tall gabled roofs, and the Cathedral that crowns them all. One fancies it is a little like a life. Above broken imperfections, above din and jar and fret, there rises evermore the something higher towards which our eyes may turn, our weary feet may press. If it were not so, we should be lingering in the cornfields and in the streets for ever. But when we once have felt that other beauty, its desire can never again go out of our souls. And there are many ways by which we are led upwards. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Unawares, by Frances Peard