Grass and brambles covered the foundations; lilacs, with spikes of brown dead blossoms, grew tall and thick around it, and roses, gone back to wild singleness, blossomed near the steps and along a path, which was only a memory, the grass had tangled so above it.
Max kept his nose under Lois's hand, and the horse stumbled once over a stone that had rolled from the broken foundation and hidden itself beneath a dock.

The mushrooms had opened their little shining brown umbrellas, as Lois had said, on the very hearth, and she stooped down to gather them and put them in her basket of sweet grass.

From the bushes at one side came the sudden note of a bob-white; Max pricked his ears.
"Lois," Gifford said abruptly, still telling himself that he was a fool,--but then, it was all so commonplace, so free from sentiment, so public, with Max, and the horse, and the bob-white, it could not trouble her just to--"Lois, I'd like--I'd like to tell you something, if you don't mind." "What ?" she said pleasantly; her basket was full, and they began to walk back to the road again.
Gifford stopped to let his horse crop the thick wet grass about a fallen gate-post.

He threw his arm over the bay's neck, and Lois leaned her elbows on the other post, swinging her basket lightly while she waited for him to speak.

The mist had quite gone by this time, and the sky was a fresh, clear blue.