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"Let's have it," says Jack, waking up from his reverie, having found it impossible to compel Violet's eyes to meet his. Springing upon the bank that skirts the road on one side, she raises her hands to her head, and listens with all her might for the sound of wheels in the distance. "Yes. I forgive you," she says, almost in a whisper, with a seriousness that amounts to solemnity. Behind the house rises a thick wood,—a "solemn wood," such as Dickens loved to write of, with its lights and shades and every-varying tints. A gentle wind is rushing through it now; the faint murmur of some "hidden brook," singing its "quiet tune," fall upon the ear; some happy birds are warbling in the thickets. It is a day whose beauty may be felt..