Again we were struck by the extraordinary individuality which
differentiates one valley or mountain-pass from another. We had seen
nothing like this; nothing, perhaps, so purely beautiful. One could
not imagine that winter snow and ice could still the pulse of summer
here. It was as if we wandered from one green glade to another in
fairyland, where all the little people who owned the magic land had
turned themselves hurriedly into strangely delicate ferns and
bluebells to watch us, laughing, as we went by.
The village of Trient lay in deep shadow when we reached it, and found
the others waiting for us in the carriage in front of the chief hotel;
but there was no gloom in the shadow; it was only a deeper shade of
green, with a hint of transparent blue streaked across it. Another
remote, dream-village on the long list of places where I really
_must_ stay for a lazy summer month--when I have time! The list was
growing long now, almost worryingly long, and the Boy felt it so, too,
for he also had a list, and strange to say, it was much the same as
mine.
We had tea, and were vaguely surprised to see a number of people of
our own kind, most of them English and American, engaged in the same
occupation, and evidently at home in the place. Trient was on their
list as well as ours, and now, if they liked, they could cross it off,
and begin with the next place.
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