The labourers cooled their sweating brows by wiping them with the shirtsleeves the rain had wet; Trenholme and his friend saw with contentment the dust laid upon their road, listened to the chirp of birds that had been silent before, and watched the raindrops dance high upon the sunny surface of the river.
The old man came quietly to them.

The rain falling through sunshine made a silver glory in the air in which he walked saintlike, his hoary locks spangled with the shining baptism.

He did not heed that his old clothes were wet.

His strong, aged face was set as though looking onward and upward, with the joyful expression habitual to it.
Trenholme and his friend were not insensible to the picture.

They were remarking upon it when the old man came into their midst.