The waning afternoons were Carley's especial torment, when it seemed the sounds and winds of the day were tiring, and all things were seeking repose, and life must soften to an unthinking happiness.

These hours troubled Carley because she wanted them to last, and because she knew for her this changing and transforming time could not last.

So long as she did not think she was satisfied.
Maples and sycamores and oaks were in full foliage, and their bright greens contrasted softly with the dark shine of the pines.

Through the spaces between brown tree trunks and the white-spotted holes of the sycamores gleamed the amber water of the creek.

Always there was murmur of little rills and the musical dash of little rapids.