It seemed to her that she had thrown herself at Elsmere's feet, that her cheek was pressed against that young brown hand of his.

How long the moment lasted she never knew.
When at last she rose, stiff and weary, darkness was overtaking even the lingering northern twilight.

The angry clouds had dropped lower on the moors; a few sheep beside the glimmering stone trough showed dimly white; the night wind was sighing through the untenanted valley and the scanty branches of the thorn.

White mists lay along the hollow of the dale, they moved weirdly under the breeze.

She could have fancied them a troop of wraiths to whom she had flung her warm crushed heart, and who were bearing it away to burial.
As she came slowly over the pass and down the Whindale side of the fell, a clear purpose was in her mind.