GRAYSMILL, October 10th.
Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I
have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me
dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again. Well;
yesterday was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and
at dinner-time it began to rain. I sat in my room in the afternoon
and read "Richard Feverel" until, looking up from my book, I saw
that the rain had ceased. The wind had risen, and, in the west, a
hole had been poked through the grey mantle, showing the gilded edge
of a snowy cloud against a patch of blue. Out I ran, across the
garden and the little park that touches the heath, then through my
dear beechwood until I reached a certain clearing where the ground
goes sheer down at one's feet and where one may behold, over the
tree-tops, stretches of wood and meadow in the plain below. I sprang
on to a knoll, and there stood breathless, watching the rout of the
tumbled clouds.
Something started beside me,--I started also, for these woods are
always very lonely,--and, to my surprise, I saw a young man.
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