When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and the barren downs—more tin-like than ever in the shadow-less light of dawn—stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities of the day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, and even at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther looked at the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of the first time she saw it. Some vague association of ideas—the likeness that the morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish to prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness, impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were not beautiful. The
