"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."
Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the youth's tale.
THE SNOWDROP.
A Slav Story.
The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as spotless as the little snowdrop.
What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?
At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold blasts.
The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon, and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.
Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at last, looking up at
"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,"