A half-circle of high-banked greensward, studded with old park-trees, hung round the roar of the water; distant enough from the white-twisting fall to be mirrored on a smooth-heaved surface, while its out-pushing brushwood below drooped under burdens of drowned reed-flags that caught the foam.

Keen scent of hay, crossing the dark air, met Emilia as she entered the river-meadow.

A little more, and she saw the white weir-piles shining, and the grey roller just beginning to glisten to the moon.

Eastward on her left, behind a cedar, the moon had cast off a thick cloud, and shone through the cedar-bars with a yellowish hazy softness, making rosy gold of the first passion of the tide, which, writhing and straining on through many lights, grew wide upon the wonderful velvet darkness underlying the wooded banks.

With the full force of a young soul that leaps from beauty seen to unimagined beauty, Emilia stood and watched the picture.