She continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little.
In front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them some
yellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blown
down by the gale. Above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, and
great pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated in
past times; a black slug was trying to climb it. Dead boughs were
scattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them were
perishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes.

From the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed with
lichen and stockinged with moss. At their roots were stemless yellow
fungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem than
stool. Next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence,
their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutual
rubbings and blows. It was the struggle between these neighbors that
she had heard in the night. Beneath them were the rotting stumps of
those of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from their
mossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. Farther on were
other tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves--variety upon
variety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, like
plush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss.

The strain upon Grace's mind in various ways was so great on this the
most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be
well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. The
evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an
opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated
gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and
throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech
that they were turned to gory hues. When night at last arrived, and
with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with
suspense.