Hazel felt that heaven was closed--locked and barred. She could see the
golden light stream through its gates. She could hear the songs of
joy--joy unattained and therefore immortal; she could see the bright
figures of her dreams go to and fro. But heaven was shut.

The wind ran up and down the narrow streets like a lost dog, whimpering.
Hazel hurried on, for it was already twilight, and though she was not
afraid of the Callow and the fields at night, she was afraid of the
high roads. For the Callow was home, but the roads were the wide world.
On the fringe of the town she saw lights in the bedroom windows of
prosperous houses.

'My! they go to their beds early,' she thought, not having heard of
dressing for dinner. It made her feel more lonely that people should
be going to bed. From other houses music floated, or the savoury smell
of dinner. As she passed the last lamp-post she began to cry, feeling
like a lost and helpless little animal. Her new dress was forgotten;
the wreath-frames would not fit under her arm, and caused a continual
minor discomfort, and the Callow seemed to be half across the country.
She heard a trapped rabbit screaming somewhere, a thin anguished cry
that she could not ignore. This delayed her a good deal, and in letting
it out she got a large bloodstain on her dress. She cried again at this.
The pain of a blister, unnoticed in the morning journey, now made itself
felt; she tried walking without her boots, but the ground was cold and
hard.

The icy, driving wind leapt across the plain like a horseman with a
long sword, and stealthily in its track came the melancholy whisper of
snow.