The tall, black trunks of the maples swayed and shook in the wind, which moaned through their leafless boughs.

Novelists always make lovers walk in the moonlight.

But if love is not, as the cynics believe, all moonshine, it can at least make its own light.

Moonlight is never so little needed or heeded, never so much of an impertinence, as in a love-scene.

It was at the bottom of the first hollow beyond the school-house that Ralph overtook the timid girl walking swiftly through the dark.