A very gentle wind, which dived over the tor tops into the young fern; stole down at her, spiced with the fern sap.

All was warmth and peace, and only the cuckoos on the far thorn trees--as though stationed by the Wistful Master himself--were there to disturb her heart: But all the sweetness and piping of the day did not soothe her.

In truth, she could not have said what was the matter, except that she felt so discontented, and as it were empty of all but a sort of aching impatience with--what exactly she could not say.

She had that rather dreadful feeling of something slipping by which she could not catch.

It was so new to her to feel like that--for no girl was less given to moods and repinings.