If the afternoon breeze, if a little runlet of water going down the street, chose to murmur: "The laird is thick with White Farm! What makes the laird so thick with White Farm ?" that was breeze or runlet's doing.
They passed the bare, gaunt manse and came to the kirkyard with the dark, low stones over the generations dead.

But the grass was vivid, and the daisies bloomed, and even the yew-trees had some kind of peacock sheen, while the sky overhead burnt essential sapphire.

Even the white of the lark held a friendly tinge as of rose petals mixed somehow with it.

And the bell that was ending its ringing, if it was solemn, was also silver-sweet.

Glenfernie determined that he would go to church.