The water of Nethermere lay below, very blue against the seared meadows and the thorn-trees.
It was four and a half miles' drive.

Tiny buds on the hedges, vivid as copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, and blackbirds shrieked and scolded.

It was a new, glamorous world.
Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk through the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood, still bare.

Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down.

He put up his hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer handed down to him.
Miriam appeared in the doorway.