As she was yet wondering, the tree suddenly rolled a little, dragged a little, and then seemed to lie quiet and still.

She put out her hand and the current gurgled against it.

The tree was aground, and, by the position of the light and the noise of the surf, aground upon the Dedlow Marsh.
Had it not been for her baby, who was ailing and croupy, had it not been for the sudden drying up of that sensitive fountain, she would have felt safe and relieved.

Perhaps it was this which tended to make all her impressions mournful and gloomy.

As the tide rapidly fell, a great flock of black brent fluttered by her, screaming and crying.