Haward went slowly, glancing now at the great, bright stream, now at the wide, calm fields and the rim of woodland, dark and distant, bounding his possessions.

The smell of salt marshes, of ploughed ground, of leagues of flowering forests, was in his nostrils.

Behind him was the crescent moon; before him a terrace crowned with lofty trees.

Within the ring of foliage was the house; even as he looked a light sprang up in a high window, and shone like a star through the gathering dusk.

Below the hill the home landing ran its gaunt black length far out into the carmine of the river; upon the Golden Rose lights burned like lower stars; from a thicket to the left of the bridle path sounded the call of a whippoorwill.