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growing in a thickly leaved arch; another stood
straight and narrow like a poplar, and a third hung
its branches like a weeping willow. Not one resembled
its neighbors, and they were all beautiful.
Then Lilliecrona rose and walked round the
house. There lay its flower gardens, so wonderfully
lovely that he paused and caught his breath. The
apple trees were in blossom. Yes, he had known
that before. He had noticed them on all the other
estates; it was only that they never bloomed
anywhere else as in this garden, where he had seen them
blossom ever since he was a child. He walked with
folded hands and careful steps up and down the
walks. They were white, and the trees were white—one
or two with a tint of pink. He had never seen
anything so lovely. He knew every tree as one
knows one’s brothers and sisters and playfellows.
The flowers of the winter cress were rose-colored,
and the crab äpple trees were nearly red. But the
old ungrafted äpple tree was the loveliest; no one
could eat its small, sour fruit, but it was lavish with
its flowers, and looked like a big snowdrift in the
brightness of the early morning.
For remember, too, it was early morning. The
dew made all the leaves glitter, and all the dust was
washed away. Over the forest-covered mountains,
which sheltered the house and garden, the first
sunbeams were pouring. It seemed as if they had set
the pine-tops on fire. The faintest mist—the finest
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