We paused half-way up on a low wall, where I had many a time rested, watching the sunset over Nunneley Hill--watching for John to come home.

Every night--at least after Miss March went away--he usually found me sitting there.
He turned to me and smiled.

"Dost remember, lad ?" at which appellation Guy widely stared.

But, for a minute, how strangely it brought back old times, when there were neither wife nor children--only he and I! This seat on the wall, with its small twilight picture of the valley below the mill, and Nunneley heights, with that sentinel row of sun-set trees--was all mine--mine solely--for evermore.
"Enderley is just the same, Phineas.

Twelve years have made no change--except in us." And he looked fondly at his wife, who stood a little way off, holding firmly on the wall, in a hazardous group, her three boys.