By the road the black-thorn was in blossom, white and wet, its tiny amber grains burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom.

Purple twigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges glowed like living shadows, hovering nearer, coming into creation.

The morning was full of a new creation.
When the sisters came to Willey Water, the lake lay all grey and visionary, stretching into the moist, translucent vista of trees and meadow.

Fine electric activity in sound came from the dumbles below the road, the birds piping one against the other, and water mysteriously plashing, issuing from the lake.
The two girls drifted swiftly along.

In front of them, at the corner of the lake, near the road, was a mossy boat-house under a walnut tree, and a little landing-stage where a boat was moored, wavering like a shadow on the still grey water, below the green, decayed poles.