Here it was just very soft, very clear moonlight.

There were trees before him--almost it seemed as if he were standing at the entrance of a forest.

But, strange to say, they were not winter trees, such as he had left behind him in the garden of Jeanne's house--bare and leafless, or if covered at all, covered only with their Christmas dress of snow and icicles--these trees were clothed with the loveliest foliage, fresh and green and feathery, which no winter's storms or nipping frosts had ever come near to blight.

And in the little space between the door where Hugh stood and these wonderful trees was drawn up, as if awaiting him, the prettiest, queerest, most delicious little carriage that ever was seen.

It was open; the cushions with which it was lined were of rose-coloured plush--not velvet, I think; at least if they _were_ velvet, it was of some marvellous kind that couldn't he rubbed the wrong way, that felt exquisitely smooth and soft whichever way you stroked it; the body of the carriage was shaped something like a cockle-shell; you could lie back in it so beautifully without cricking or straining your neck or shoulders in the least; and there was just room for two.