The sun seemed to tip the great green bowl of the valley, and make every leaf shine and glisten; the road wound among the circling hills, which were dark with sombre pines, lightened here and there by the fresh greenness of ash or chestnuts; in some places the horse's hoofs made a velvety sound on the fallen catkins.

A brook followed their path, whispering and chattering, or hiding away under overhanging bushes, and then laughing sharply out into the sunshine again.

The wind was fresh and fickle; sometimes twisting the weeds and flowers at the wayside, or sending a dash of last night's raindrops into their faces from the low branches of the trees, and all the while making cloud shadows scud over the fresh-ploughed fields, and up and across the blue, distant hills.
John rested his hand on her bridle, as she stroked her horse's mane.

"How the wind has blown your hair from under your hat!" he said.
She put her gauntleted hand up to smooth it.
"Don't," he said, "it's so pretty; it looks like little tendrils that have caught the sun." Helen laughed, and then looked at him anxiously; the sunshine brought out the worn lines in his face.

"You work too hard, dearest; it worries me." "I have never worked at all!" he cried, with a sudden passion of pain in his voice.