winding tracks following along beside the streams, faintly marked
trails
emerging from the woodlands. But on the hillside the threads
were more
firmly woven into one clear band of travel, though there were
still
a few dim paths joining it here and there, as if persons had been

climbing up the hill by other ways and had turned at last to seek
the road.

From the edge of the hill, where John Weightman sat, he could see

the travelers, in little groups or larger companies, gathering
from
time to time by the different paths, and making the ascent.
They were all clothed in white, and the form of their garments
was
strange to him; it was like some old picture. They passed him,
group after group, talking quietly together or singing; not
moving
in haste, but with a certain air of eagerness and joy as if they
were
glad to be on their way to an appointed place. They did not stay
to
speak to him, but they looked at him often and spoke to one
another
as they looked; and now and then one of them would smile and
beckon him a friendly greeting, so that he felt they would like
him