It was this path which Ingolby trod with eager steps.
Presently, as he stood still at sight of a ground-hog making for its hiding-place, he saw a shadow fall across the light breaking through the trees some distance in front of him.

It was Fleda.

She had not seen him, and she came hurrying towards where he was with head bent, a brightly-ribboned hat swinging in her fingers.

She seemed part of the woods, its wild simplicity, its depth, its colour-already Autumn was crimsoning the leaves, touching them with amber tints, making the woodland warm and kind.

She wore a dress of golden brown which matched her hair, and at her throat was a black velvet ribbon with a brooch of antique paste which flashed the light like diamonds, but more softly.
Suddenly, as she came on, she stopped and raised her head in a listening attitude, her eyes opening wide as if listening, too--it was as though she heard with them as well; alive to catch sounds which evaded capture.
She was like some creature of an ancient wood with its own secret and immemorial history which the world could never know.