Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Mary had paused by the field gate of the Gore. She leaned against the gate, remembering that June night, and the full moon, and her tears. Below her the oaks of Gore Wood showed domes of greenness flecked with gold. The old thorn hedges on either side of the gate were full of yellow corn and red berries. A yaffle flew laughing overhead and went winging towards the oak trees.

The bird's laughing note was like a passing salutation. He went from wood to wood, through sunlight and shadow, gay in his green coat, uttering that humorous and exultant cry. O, laughter! Had Furze forgotten how to laugh? Could he but look at his own gloomy face, and realize the humorous futility of his gloom,--and then burst out laughing! O, blessed laughter! She wanted to laugh at her own fear, for she was afraid, all trembling between repugnance and pity. She clung to her pity, for somehow she knew that if she did not cling to it with passion, and refuse to let it go, fear would overcome her.