There was a snowstorm late in the spring, and a drift was formed in a hollow at the bottom of the fosse.

The weather continued chilly (sometimes even in June it is chilly, and the flowers seem out of harmony with the temperature), and this drift, though of course it was reduced, did not melt but became consolidated like ice: a part still remained when the haymaking commenced.

The pony now slackened his pace at a sharp ascent, and as he walked up we could hear the short song of the grasshoppers.

There was a fir copse at the summit through which the track went; by the gateway as we entered there was a convolvulus out.
Cicely regretted to see this sign that the sun had reached his greatest height: the tide of summer was full.

Beyond the copse we descended by a deep-worn track into a 'coombe-bottom,' or valley, where were some cottages.
Cicely, who knew some of the old people, thought she would call, though most probably they would be away.