A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

Like everybody else Burrough was affected by the weather, but unlike most he appreciated wind and rain. When in London he revelled in a fog. Upon Dartmoor he felt himself exhilarated by a thick mountain mist. Sunshine he delighted in, of course, but the enjoyment was usually alloyed with sadness, because on those bright days, when Nature was at her best, he felt outside all the happiness. He knew that he ought to be having what is called a good time. He had neither means nor opportunities so to do. When it rained, or there was a close pall of mist over the high moor, he had the idea that he was as happy as most people.

It was a glorious morning, and as a consequence Burrough was somewhat low-spirited. He was almost sorry Beatrice had come into his life. His love was only a dream, which would pass away and never come again. He would be left to his loneliness with the memory of her. She would go; and he be left. The winter would return.