Through a rift in the breaking clouds overhead came a passing flash of the moon.
"We'll find him now, Peter," moaned the girl.

"We'll find him--now.

He can't be very far ahead--" And Peter waited, holding his breath, listening for an answer to the cry that went out for Jolly Roger McKay.
The glory of July midnight, with a round, full moon straight overhead, followed the stress of storm.

The world had been lashed and inundated, every tree whipped of its rot and slag, every blade of grass and flower washed clean.

Out of the earth rose sweet smells of growing life, the musky fragrance of deep moss and needle-mold, and through the clean air drifted faintly the aroma of cedar and balsam and the subtle tang of unending canopies and glistening tapestries of evergreen breathing into the night.