Somewhere on the outermost branches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent.
"Where ?" he asked.
"Down the middle path," she murmured, quivering.
When they turned the corner of the path she stood still.

In the wide walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguish nothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of their colour.

Then she saw her bush.
"Ah!" she cried, hastening forward.
It was very still.

The tree was tall and straggling.

It had thrown its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spilt stars, pure white.