The sunlight was a veritable flood, crystal, limpid, sparkling, setting a feeling of gayety in the air, stirring up an effervescence in the blood, a tumult of exuberance in the veins.
But on his way to the barns, Annixter was obliged to pass by the open door of the dairy-house.

Hilma Tree was inside, singing at her work; her voice of a velvety huskiness, more of the chest than of the throat, mingling with the liquid dashing of the milk in the vats and churns, and the clear, sonorous clinking of the cans and pans.

Annixter turned into the dairy-house, pausing on the threshold, looking about him.

Hilma stood bathed from head to foot in the torrent of sunlight that poured in upon her from the three wide-open windows.

She was charming, delicious, radiant of youth, of health, of well-being.