The upper branches of the line of Scotch firs in the warren and, beyond them, the upper windows of the cottages and Inn caught the fiery light.

Presently a little wind, thin, perceptibly chill, drew up the river with the turning of the tide.
It fluttered Mary Fisher's long white muslin apron strings and lifted her cap, so that she raised her hand to keep it in place upon her smooth black hair.

The romance of Brockhurst failed upon her tongue.

She grew sharply practical.
"The dew's beginning to rise, Miss Damaris," she said, "and you've only got your house shoes on.

You ought to go indoors at once." But--"Listen," Damaris replied, and lingered.
The whistling of a tune, shrill, but true and sweet, and a rattle of loose shingle, while a young man climbed the seaward slope of the Bar.
The whistling ceased as he stopped, on the crest of the ridge, and stood, bare-headed, contemplating the sunset.