The brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches.

The poppies along its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight.

Flowers that had been planted by the hands of the schoolmaster's bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays.
Anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray.
"I love to smell flowers in the dark," she said.

"You get hold of their soul then.

Oh, Gilbert, this little house is all I've dreamed it.