Eve woke with the scent of hay in her nostrils, and her hair was damp with dew.
She sat up, and from that brown nook on the hill-side looked out upon a world that was all white mist, with a great silver sun struggling out of the east. Each blade of grass had its droplet of dew. The air was still as deep water. From a wood in the valley came the sound of the singing of birds.
Her two companions were still asleep, Joan Gaunt lying with her mouth wide open, her face looking grey and old. Eve picked up an armful of hay, went a few paces forward, and sat down so that she could see everything without having to look over the bodies of the sleeping women.
It was like watching the birth of a world. The veil of white mist hid miraculous happenings, and the singing of the birds down yonder was like the exultation of souls that beheld and marvelled. Mystery! The stillness seemed to wait. In a little while the white veil would be withdrawn.
Then the vapour became full of sudden motion. It rolled in great drifts, rose, broke into little wisps of smoke, and half lost itself in yellow light. The interplay was wonderful to watch. Sometimes the mist closed in again, hiding what it had half revealed, only to drift away once more like torn masses of gossamer. A great yellow ray of sunlight struck abruptly across the valley, fell upon the wood where the birds were singing, and splashed it with gold. Then the mist seemed to be drawn up like a curtain. Colour came into the landscape, the bronze and yellow of the budding oaks, the delicate green of young beech leaves, the sables of yews and firs, the blue of the sky, the green of the fields. It was all wet, fragrant, glittering, like an elf world lifted suddenly out of the waters of an enchanted sea.
Someone sneezed. Eve turned sharply, and found Joan Gaunt was awake, and sitting up. Wisps of hay had got tangled in her hair, her blouse looked like an impressionist sunset, and one side of her face was red and mottled from lying on the canvas knapsack. She had been awake for ten minutes, and had pulled out a notebook and was scribbling in it with a pencil.
Eve thought that she was turning the May morning into a word picture, but she soon noticed that Joan Gaunt’s eyes did not rise above the level of her notebook.
“Busy already?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”