LITTLE SILK WING The first of the twilight over Silverwater.

So ethereal were the thin washes of palest orange and apple-green reflection spreading over the surface of the lake, out beyond the fringe of alder bushes, so bubble-like in delicacy the violet tones of the air among the trees, just fading away into the moth-wing brown of dusk, that the Child was afraid to ask even the briefest questions, lest his voice should break the incomparable enchantment.

Uncle Andy sat smoking, his eyes withdrawn in a dream.

From the other side of the point, quite out of sight, where Bill was washing the dishes after the early camp supper, came a soft clatter of tins.

But the homely sound had no power to jar the quiet.
The magic of the hour took it, and transmuted it, and made it a note in the chord of the great stillness.