But soon I saw and was drawn by another thing.
How young was I that afternoon when I sat in the deep window and watched the low, soft whiteness creeping out and hovering over the heather as if the moor had breathed it?
I do not remember.

It was such a low little mist at first; and it crept and crept until its creeping grew into something heavier and whiter, and it began to hide the heather and the gorse and broom, and then the low young fir-trees.

It mounted and mounted, and sometimes a breath of wind twisted it into weird shapes, almost like human creatures.

It opened and closed again, and then it dragged and crept and grew thicker.

And as I pressed my face against the window-pane, it mounted still higher and got hold of the moor and hid it, hanging heavy and white and waiting.