The sun was not yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden tints.

Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes.

It was a more peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's toils and troubles.

All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness except themselves.

Their dark journey through the silent night had been almost a crime.
"Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said Roland Sefton.
Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking round.