Lights were out in the quarters; the house was as still and white as a mansion in a fairy tale.

Mr.Pincornet was no skilled musician, but the air he played was old and sweet, and it served the hour.

Below their mountain-top lay the misty valleys; to the east the moon-flooded plains; to the west the far line of the Blue Ridge.

The night was cloudless.
Rand stood with his hands upon the balustrade, then walked down the terrace and paused before the dancing master.

"Before he hurt his hand Mr.Jefferson played the violin beautifully," he said.