noon
The blow which rendered her without control did not break her spirit , but it pressed out its buoyance . Mrs. Jardine was a grave , occupied , resigned woman , no longer a blithe one , very fond and proud of Harry , but grateful , not glad in her fondness and pride . The frost had come early , strong , and stern on those Highlands of the Lowlands , those moors of the south . The `` lustre deep '' at twilight and dawn , the imperial Tyrian dye at noon , the glorious `` orange and purple and grey '' at sunset and sunrise , which , once known and loved , man never forgets , nor woman either -- all would soon be swept away this year , and Joanna regretted it . She liked the flower-garden , but , after all , the garden was tame to the moor . The moor 's seasons were , at best , short -- short the golden flush of its June ; short the red gleam of its September . Not that the lowland Moor has not its dead , frosted grace in its winter winding-sheet , and its tender spring charm , when curlews scream over it incessantly .