To this day a dewy morning in late August brings back the thought of Mary and those stolen meetings. I have the minutest recollection of the bloom upon the turf, and the , filmy carpet of on either hand, of the warm wetness of every little blade and blossom and of the little and seeds of grass upon my soaking and discolored boots. Our footsteps were dark green upon the dew-grey grass. And I feel the same hungry freshness again at the thought of those stolen meetings. Presently came the sunrise, blinding, warming, dew-dispelling arrows of gold through the tree stems, a flood of light over the bracken and the under sides of the branches. Everything is different and in those opening hours; everything has a different value from what it has by day. All the little things upon the ground, fallen branches, tussocks, wood-piles, have a and importance, seem magnified, because of the length of their shadows in the rays, and all the great trees seem lifted above the light and with the sky. And at last, a cool grey outline against the blaze and with a glancing halo about her, comes Mary, flitting, , friendly, wonderful.  
"Oh Stevenage!" she cries, "to see you again!"
 
We each hold out both our hands and clasp and hesitate and rather shyly kiss.
 
"Come!" she says, "we can talk for an hour. It's still not six. And there is a fallen branch where we can sit and put our feet out of the wet. Oh! it's so good to be out of things again—clean out of things—with you. Look! there is a stag watching us."
 
"You're glad to be with me?" I ask, jealous of the very sunrise.
 
"I am always glad," she says, "to be with you. Why don't we always get up at dawn, Stevenage, every day of our lives?"
 
We go through the grass to the timber she has chosen. (I c............