For the hundredth time he made sure the ring was in the left pocket of his waistcoat.
From down-stairs came the hum of voices mingled with the music.

The warm breath of coming summer stole through the window.
Sandy looked joyously out across the fields of waving blue-grass to the shining river.

Down by the well was an old windmill, and at its top a weather-vane.

When he spied it he smiled.

Once again he was a ragged youngster, back on the Liverpool dock; the fog was closing in, and the coarse voices of the sailors rang in his ears.