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For some slow, pleasant minutes she lay still, listening to the footsteps of the wind and her own heart-beats, with her cheek pressed close to the thymy earth, still besprinkled, late as it was, with milk-wort and rest-harrow and yellow sparks of tormentil, that glimmered like flung match-ends in fuel that was a clump of spent brown heather. The bright, thin sunshine settled lightly upon her like a gossamer scarf or a baby’s breath upon your cheek before it kisses you. Through shut eyes she enjoyed the spacious peace of the hill-top, and the delicate warmth seemed a physical expression of the sensation of well-being that was stealing over her, a sensation that, in the old days, had been but another word for her mother’s presence. The wind, raging again in the beech-grove, was a turbulent giant guarding the entrance to enchanted lands: its far-away fury heightened the impression of expectant silence. Through her pleasant drowsiness she had an odd feeling that something, something important, was about to happen.