But the sun still was kind, the midday hour still was one of warmth.

A strange, keen value, immeasurably exalting, was in the air.

All nature was afoot, questioning of what was to come.
Mary Gage came in from the stream side that afternoon, the strap of her trout creel cutting deep into the shoulder of her sweater.

She placed the basket down under the shadow of the willow trees, and hung up a certain rod on certain nails under the eaves of the cabin.

Her little dog, Tim, soberly marched in front of her, still guiding her, as he supposed; but she no longer had a cord upon his neck, a staff in her hand.