There was not a leaf in all that land to give a rustle, nor any water which might afford a ripple.

It was a world silent, finished, past and beyond life and its frettings, with nothing to trouble, and with nothing which bade one think of any world gone by.

Here was no place for memories or dreams.

The rush of another world might go on.

Folk might live and love, grieve and joy, and sorrow and die, and it mattered nothing.