“Oh, no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood; and I know all the pleasantest spots.  I know where we could get nuts in nutting time; I know where wild strawberries abound; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as if gilded, some a sober gray, some gem-green.  I know groups of trees that ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects:  rude oak, delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and ash-trees, stately as Saul, standing isolated; and superannuated wood-giants clad in bright shrouds of ivy.”

THE END OF HEATHCLIFF

From Emily Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’

For some days after that evening Mr. Heathcliff shunned meeting us at meals; yet he would not consent formally to exclude Hareton and Cathy.  He had an aversion to yielding so completely to his feelings, choosing rather to absent himself; and eating once in twenty-four hours seemed sufficient sustenance for him.

One night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go down-stairs and out at the front door; I did not hear him re-enter, and in the morning I found he was still away.  We were in April then, the weather was sweet and warm, the grass as green as showers and sun could make it, and the two dwarf apple-trees near the southern wall in full bloom.

After breakfast, Catherine insisted on my bringing a chair and sitting with my work under the fir-trees at the end of the house; and she beguiled Hareton, who had recovered from his accident, to dig and arrange her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by the influence of Joseph’s complaints.

I was comfortably reveling in the spring fragrance around, and the beautiful soft blue overhead, when my young lady, who had run down near the gate to procure some primrose roots for a border, returned only half laden, and informed us that Mr. Heathcliff was coming in.

“And he spoke to me,” she added with a perplexed look.

“What did he say?” asked Hareton.

“He told me to begone as fast as I could,” she answered.  “But he looked so different from his usual look that I stopped a moment to stare at him.”

“How?” he inquired.

“Why, almost bright and cheerful—­no, almost nothing—­very much excited, and wild, and glad!” she replied.

“Night-walking amuses him, then,” I remarked, affecting a careless manner; in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain the truth of her statement—­for to see the master looking glad would not be an every-day spectacle; I framed an excuse to go in.

Heathcliff stood at the open door—­he was pale, and he trembled; yet certainly he had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered the aspect of his whole face.

“Will you have some breakfast?” I said.  “You must be hungry, rambling about all night!”