The year was slowly drawing to a close, and the nights were growing longer and longer. Algy perched on the hillside in the gloaming, in a spot overlooking the horseshoe bay, and gazed into the west. The last glimmers of light were always far out to sea, beyond the clouds, and beyond the islands. As he watched the colours fade out of the landscape, he thought of the opening verses of a poem:

          Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
          With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
          Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
          Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.

          Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing
          Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing;
          ‘Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming,
          Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.

[Algy is quoting the first two verses of the poem November Evening by the late 19th/early 20th century Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery.]