ABSTRACT
One evening I was riding on St. George's Hill with my sister Gertrude. It had been raining, but the sun had burst out from behind a cloud, and shone on all things; the long sprays of green larch, the dark fir, the patches of amber-coloured moss all sparkled with drops and glowed with colour; but yet the ground was damp and seemed cold, and the dull muffled sound of our horses' hoofs seemed desolate.
