Underfoot the moisture of the path was beginning, not yet to stiffen, but rather to withdraw itself; and there was a cold clearness in the air.

Over the wall beside the house, beyond the leafless trees which barred it like prison-bars, burned the sunset, deepening and glowing redder every instant.

Yet she felt nothing of the cold, for a fire was within her as she went again up and down the path on which her father had watched her walk--a fire of which as yet she could not discern the fuel.

The love of Robin was there--that she knew; and the love of Christ was there--so she thought; and yet where the divine and the human passion mingled, she could not tell; nor whether, indeed, for certain, it were the love of Christ at all, and not a vain imagination of her own as to how Christ, in this case, would be loved.

Only she knew that across her love for Robin a shadow had fallen; she could scarcely tell when it had first come to her, and whence.