She was not broken-hearted, though she grieved now and again with a blind longing of regret.

But she was confused and shaken; the landmarks of her vision seemed to have been removed, and she had to face the grim narrowing-down of hopes which is the sternest trial for poor mortality.
Autumn's hand was lying heavy on the hillsides.

Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline.

Faint odours of wood smoke seemed to flit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.

She resolved to go to the Midburn and climb up the cleft, for the place was still a centre of memory.