A pillar of dim silver rain fronted the moon on the hills.

Emilia walked hurriedly, with her head bent, like a penitent: now and then peeping up and breathing to the keen scent of the tender ferns.

Wilfrid still grasped her hand, and led her across the common, away from the rout.
When the uproar behind them had sunk, he said "You'll get your feet wet.
I'm sorry you should have to walk.

How did you come here ?" She answered: "I forget." "You must have come here in some conveyance.

Did you walk ?" Again she answered: "I forget;" a little querulously; perhaps wilfully.
"Well!" he persisted: "You must have got your harp to this place by some means or other ?" "Yes, my harp!" a sob checked her voice.
Wilfrid tried to soothe her.