The yew trees in the churchyard were bedewed with tiny drops.

At the little gate that led from the vicarage into the churchyard, between the yew trees and the beeches, the curate waited for Violetta, after evensong.

She came out of the old grey porch and down the path between the graves and the yew trees with her prayer-book in her hand.

She looked like an Easter lily that holds itself in bud till the sadness of Lent is past, so pure, so modest, such a perfect thing from the hand of God.
She stopped and started when she saw her lover, and then greeted him with a little smile, but blent with some reproachful dignity.
'I am glad you have come at last, for I have been wanting to speak to you.

Poor mamma has been very poorly and ill.