Vane of the Timberlands by Harold Bindloss

About a fortnight after Vane's return to Vancouver, he sat one evening on the veranda of Nairn's house, in company with his host and Carroll, lazily looking down upon the inlet. The days were growing shorter; the air was clear and cool; and the snow upon the heights across the still, blue water was creeping lower down. The clatter of a steamer's winches rose sharply from the wharf, and the sails of two schooners gleamed against the dark pines that overhang the Narrows.

In some respects, Vane was glad to be back in the western city. At first, the ease and leisure at the Dene had their charm for him, but by degrees he came to chafe at them. The green English valley, hemmed in by its sheltering hills, was steeped in too profound a tranquillity; the stream of busy life passed it by with scarcely an entering ripple to break its drowsy calm. One found its atmosphere enervating, dulling to the faculties. In the new West, however, one was forcibly thrust into contact with a strenuous activity. Life was free and untrammeled there; it flowed with a fierce joyousness in natural channels, and one could feel the eager throb of it.