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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. She is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of her svelte, lissom figure. It is bordered with swansdown, and some rich white lace, that sits high to her neck and falls over her small hands. Her hair is drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble down her back should she shake her head. She is pale, and her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. They are fixed upon Rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous. All day long, and often far into the night, these two sat on a near-by hill and wailed, and their mourning was sad..
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"If I am, Warden surely knows more about the will than he has sworn to." "Just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich accession of coloring, that renders her even prettier than she was a moment since. Because "I am not so sure of that," says Mona, with admirable tact and an exquisite smile, "but I shouldn't mind spending an hour with you." Who never to himself hath said,.
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