From the hill-top above, it came, sloping steep from far.

When you looked up, it seemed to come flowing from the horizon itself, and when you looked down, it seemed to have suddenly found it could no more return to the upper regions it had left too high behind it, and in disgust to shoot headlong to the abyss.

There was not much water in it now, but plenty to make a joyous white rush through the deep-worn brown of the rock: in the autumn and spring it came down gloriously, dark and fierce, as if it sought the very centre, wild with greed after an absolute rest.
The boy stood and gazed, as was his custom.

Always he would seek this endless water when he grew weary, when the things about him put on their too ordinary look.

Let the aspect of this be what it might, it seemed still inspired and sent forth by some essence of mystery and endless possibility.