The hummings of her wheels and wings were loud in his ear, the fanning of them cool on his cheek.

The wood here was very light and young, and the spring sun struck the roots of the trees.
Little swarms of gossamer gnats danced in the sunlit spaces; when he looked down there was the blue surprise of violets, and anemones nodded dimly out of low shadows.

There was a loud shrilling of birds, and the tremulousness of the young leaves seemed to be as much from unseen wings as wind.

However, the wind blew hard in soft, frequent gusts, and everything was tilting and bowing and waving.
Jerome looked at it all, and it had a new meaning for him.

The outer world is always tinctured more or less to the sight by one's mental states; but who can say, when it comes to outlooks from the keenest stresses of spirit, how impalpable the boundary-lines between beholder and object may grow?
Who knows if a rose does not really cease to be, in its own sense, to a soul in an extremity of joy or grief?
Whatever it might be for others, the spring wood was not to-day what it had ever been before to Jerome.