Beautiful icons have I sometimes found in these forsaken little churches, carried there no doubt from greater ones when so-called improvements banished from their renovated walls the old-time treasures forthwith considered too shabby or too defaced.
Well do I remember one evening, after having climbed an endless way, I came at last to the foot of the pine-trees that had beckoned to me from afar, and how I reached the open door of the sanctuary at the very moment when the sun was going down.
The day had been wet, but this last hour before dusk was trying by its beauty to make up for earlier frowns.
The villagers, having guessed my intentions, had sent an old peasant to open the church. As I approached, the sound of a bell reached me, tolling its greeting into the evening air.
"THE ROOFS ARE ALWAYS OF SHINGLE" (p. [44]).
The last rays of the sun were lying golden on the building as I reached the door. Like dancing flames they had penetrated inside, spreading their glorious light over the humble interior, surrounding the saints' painted effigies with luminous haloes.
It was a wondrous sight!