All around and underneath her lay the black, still water,--so black that the maple-branches cast no shadow on it.

About and above her rose the mountains, grim and mute, and watching, as they had watched for ages, and would watch for ages still, all the long night through.

Overhead, the stars glittered and throbbed, and shot in and out of ragged clouds.

Far up in the great forests, that climbed the mountain-sides, the wind was muttering like an angry voice.
Somehow it made Gypsy sit very still.

She thought, if she were a poet, she would write some verses just then; indeed, if she had had a pencil, I am not sure but she would have, as it was.
Then some other thoughts came to Gypsy.