It was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness.

Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones.

He saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away.
It seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper.

The valley was very, very still.
As he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself.

He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not.
He sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge.