The morning had been windy, and little showers had sowed themselves like grain against the walls and window-panes of the Hintock cottages.

He went on foot across the wilder recesses of the park, where slimy streams of green moisture, exuding from decayed holes caused by old amputations, ran down the bark of the oaks and elms, the rind below being coated with a lichenous wash as green as emerald.

They were stout-trunked trees, that never rocked their stems in the fiercest gale, responding to it entirely by crooking their limbs.

Wrinkled like an old crone's face, and antlered with dead branches that rose above the foliage of their summits, they were nevertheless still green--though yellow had invaded the leaves of other trees.
She was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and Fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors it was broad daylight.

Moreover, a large fire was burning in the grate, though it was not cold.
"What does it all mean ?" he asked.
She sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away.