But the light of the late afternoon glowed green behind the straight trees, and became a symbol of her.

The light seemed to expand his heart.

She brooded over the gray fields, and was with him now in the railway carriage, thoughtful, silent, and infinitely tender; but the vision pressed too close, and must be dismissed, for the train was slackening.

Its abrupt jerks shook him wide awake, and he saw Mary Datchet, a sturdy russet figure, with a dash of scarlet about it, as the carriage slid down the platform.

A tall youth who accompanied her shook him by the hand, took his bag, and led the way without uttering one articulate word.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.