The light of the sun is no longer rich and mellow as it was a month ago. The sun shines with a thin white heat. We feel the heat of noon far more than we did in July, perhaps because the nights are growing cold. We wakened shivering one night last week. When I rose to fetch deer-skin rugs I looked out at the door of the cave to see the night. It was so lovely I began to call Terry, telling her to hurry as if the silver moon and frost-bespangled earth were too beautiful to remain. The moon was full in an empty sky. The world it lightened had no colours save the white light of the moon and shadows as black as jet. The large moon, lifted in vacancy, gave me a strange feeling of the round earth itself, sailing in space upon its voyage, with us its infinitesimal cargo. The world had valleys as the moon; I saw the valleys of the moon, and under them our country with its hills.

The leaves of the birch wood are bright yellow. Rowan trees with scarlet fruit amongst their crimson, brown, and black leaves stand in the golden setting of the birches. The bent grass of the forest is tawny yellow.

We have made our cave tight and snug. The floor is covered with deer-skins. Every chink and cranny in the gable is stopped with clay. We have a double door of skins and canvas to exclude storm.

‘We’ve one thing to be thankful for,’ I told Terry when the new snow appeared. ‘We are under the snow-line; I’ve been watching the clouds on dirty days. We lie just under them. All we get of them is flying scuds of mist. It’ll make a big difference in midwinter. If we were above the snow-line we’d have rain and sleet and snow practically without cease.’

‘A pretty prospect,’ she said laughing. ‘Oh, Hugh! I wish you could see yourself.’

‘What’s the matter with me?’ I demanded.

‘You’re not brown, you’re black,’ she cried. ‘If ever I saw a gipsy—I really must set to and mend your clothes,’ she added more seriously.

‘You’ve a wild look about yourself, Terry. That tangled black mop of yours—Do I look a ruffian?’ I asked ruefully, examining my arms and legs. I was wearing shorts and boots without stockings and the sleeves of my shirt were cut away. My arms and legs were burnt with the sun. Terry had on her shortest skirt. She also was without stockings and her blouse lacked sleeves. Her head was bare. Her hair over her forehead was bleached with the sun.

‘I’m going to wear rags while I can,’ I continued. ‘Pretty soon we’ll have to put on winter clothes again.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, and sighed. ‘I’m loath to think that summer’s nearly spent.’