The church was three miles down the road.

It was now afternoon, and the heat lay like a veil upon wood and field and the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge.

The dust rose behind the carriage, then sank upon and further whitened the milkweed and the love vine and the papaw bushes.

The blaze of light, the incessant shrilling of the locusts, the shadeless pines, the drouth, the long, dusty road--all made, thought Unity, a dry and fierce monotony that seared the eyes and weighed upon the soul.

She wondered of what Jacqueline was thinking.
The Church of Saint Margaret looked forth with a small, white-pillared face, from a grove of oaks.