The grass before the house sloped to a glimmer of water, and was edged by clustered trees; on the other side of the lake more trees stood black against the fading light, and close to the house there was a group of elms in which the rooks were busy. The branches of all the trees were swaying, flinging themselves this way and that, dipping towards the earth and springing up again in defiance of their humility, shaking their heads in denial, lowering them in contrite affirmation. The noise they made was like that of the sea, but, because it was rarer, it was more foreboding. The roaring of the sea, now loud, now soft, is as unceasing as its ebb and flow, but the trees only cry out when the wind whips them, and their voice is full of lamentation. Mrs. Morton did not like the wind. She loved her home best when the summer sun shone on it, and the trees were clothed in green to hide their nakedness, when the flower-beds were bright with colour, and she could stroll beside them under the shade of her parasol. The gaunt energy of leafless trees, their moans and wailings, were akin to the sight and sound of a soul laid bare, and this tall, white-haired lady with the passive face disliked them according to her dread of the primitive and unruly. She shuddered as she waited for Theresa. This was no fit day for Basil to bring home his betrothed; there was no bridal softness in the air and, with a carelessness unlike him, he had driven to meet her in the dog-cart. She had protested, for the wind was cold, but he had smiled, told her Theresa loved the wind, and repeated his inconsiderate order. She would be cold when she arrived. Mrs. Morton looked round the white-panelled room with its shining floor and furniture, and she looked approvingly, for the lamps were warmly shaded, the fire was bright, and the tea-table and comfortable chairs were drawn close to the hearth. Again she strained her eyes into the dusk, and when they had cleared themselves of the reflected lamplight and the dim picture of herself on the other side of the window, she saw the dog-cart moving quickly. She was at the hall door, as she had planned, at the moment when Morton reined in the horse and the groom sprang to its head, and she saw the startling dexterity of Theresa's leap to the ground. She heard her son's reproachful tones. "You might have hurt yourself." And Theresa's answer, clear and gay: "No I mightn't. I can calculate a jump to an inch." Morton laughed, and led the small figure up the steps. "Mother, here is Theresa," he said. She was embraced, but, in the half light, Mrs. Morton could not see her face. She felt the cold firmness of her cheeks, and she kissed them through strands of wind-blown hair. With a processional solemnity, they passed into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Morton, Basil and a maid helped to free her of her wraps. "You must be very cold, dear. Come to the fire."