From the blur they looked back.

They wanted to make sure they were not dreaming.

The water rushed over the fall more musically than ever before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze.

On a dead branch a wood-pecker hammered industriously.
"Before we get out of sight of that dear old tree I want to make a confession," said Betty, as she stood before Alfred.

She was pulling at the fringe on his hunting-coat.
"You need not make confessions to me." "But this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience." "Very well, I will be your judge.