Thomas Wingfold. Volume III by George MacDonald

The next day the curate found himself so ill at ease, from the / reaction after excitement of various kinds, that he determined to / give himself a holiday. His notion of a holiday was a very simple / one: a day in a deep wood, if such could be had, with a volume fit / for alternate reading and pocketing as he might feel inclined. Of / late no volume had been his companion in any wanderings but his New / Testament.

There was a remnant of real old-fashioned forest on the Lythe, some / distance up: thither he went by the road, the shortest way, to / return by the winding course of the stream. It was a beautiful day / of St. Martin's summer. In the forest, if the leaves were gone, / there was the more light, and sun and shadow played many a lovely / game. But he saw them as though he saw them not, for fear and hope / struggled in his heart, and for a long time prayer itself could not / atone them. At length a calm fell, and he set out to return home, / down the bank of the river.