The Gates of Dawn by Fergus Hume — Read

All that night it rained heavily, but Dan woke next morning to find that the clouds had dispersed. He was later than usual, and the sun was already over the rim of the sea. The dell was chilly and dripping with damp, while the ground was moist, and the pine trees were of a fresh green hue. In the silent hours the world had been thoroughly cleansed, and there was a new vigour in the air which caused the blood to speed more rapidly through his veins. The rain had drawn perfumes from the bosom of the earth, and the dell smelt like a garden of spices, and smoked with vapour like a sacrificial altar.

Having taken the precaution to keep some wood in his caravan, he soon had a brisk fire burning, and forthwith proceeded to prepare breakfast. Owing to the lateness of the hour, and a timely remembrance that the heavy rains probably rendered the paths too slippery for Simon, he did not go down for his usual swim, but pottered about till noon, at which time he expected the vicar. To do honour to his guest, Dan made due preparation, and when the sun was up over the backbone of the ridge, found that there was nothing wanting save the presence of his visitor. His occupation being thus gone, he sat on a log beside his fire, and meditated over a pipe concerning the conversation of the previous night. There were many things to consider touching his position.