It was just before sunset.
Birds were gossiping in the sycamores on the bank.

At the foot of the garden, near the creek, there were some tall hydrangea bushes, flower-laden, and, beyond them, one broad shaft of the sun smote the creek bends for a mile in that flat land, and crossed the garden like a bright, taut-drawn veil.

Harkless passed the bushes and stepped out into this gold brilliance.

Then he uttered a cry and stopped.
Helen was standing beside the hydrangeas, with both hands against her cheeks and her eyes fixed on the ground.

She had run away as far as she could run; there were high fences extending down to the creek on each side, and the water was beyond.
"_You_!" he said.