The rain, he said, made him lonesome.

Each night in a hopeless conflict of pity and dislike Kenny went, rain and wind and Adam Craig getting horribly upon his nerves.
He was glad when the sun came and filled the valley, panoramic from the farmhouse ridge, with a glory of light.

Milk-white clouds capped the western hills.

Nearer, dotted peacefully with farms, red barns and dark, straggling clumps of evergreen, the rolling valley stretched unevenly among intersecting lines of trees.

At the foot of a hill rose the spire of the village church.