The river cried hoarsely to her from below, the becks in the little ghylls were full and thunderous; and beside her over the smooth grass slid many a new-born rivulet, the child of the storm, and destined to vanish with the night.

Catherine's soul went out to welcome the gray damp of the hills.

She knew them best in this mood.

They were thus most her own.
She climbed on till at last she reached the crest of the ridge.

Behind her lay the valley, and on its further side the fells she had crossed in the afternoon.