Then he heard them speak again, but the wind blew their words from him.
The tones, the accent, of the woman who had been speaking, told that she was what, in good old English, used to be called a lady.

Alec Trenholme, who had never had much to do with well-bred women, was inclined to see around each a halo of charm; and now, after his long, rough exile, this disposition was increased in him tenfold.

Here, in night and storm, to be roused from the half lethargy of mechanical exercise by the modulations of such a voice, and forced by the strength of its feeling to be, as it were, a confidant--this excited him not a little.

For a few moments he thought of nothing but the lady and what he had heard, conjecturing all things; but he did not associate her with the poor people he had been told were to meet that night upon the mountain.
Roused by the incident, and alert, another thought came quickly, however.

He was getting past the large black hill, but the lane turning to it he had not found.