my sister's room. She has not gone to bed, but has fallen asleep in her chair, from sheer exhaustion. I tell her the result of my night's vigil, and am presently in my own room, and a sound sleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S REALITY.
The next day passes wearily. In the morning we see Amy go to bathe, as usual; and, in the afternoon we pass them on the cliffs. Amy looks pale and anxious; and her eyes seem heavy with weeping and watching. When we are close to them, I pretend to be talking in a loud tone of voice to my sister; and I say—meeting Amy's eyes as I say it—"he will be quite certain to arrive, and I shall be there to meet him." I think this a Machiavellian stroke of policy, and I am delighted with myself at my ready wit.
As evening advances the sky becomes overcast; and, as I let myself out of the hotel, at half-past eleven o'clock, big drops of rain beat against my face. I send Trap indoors again; it is evidently going to be a night not fit to turn out a dog in, and Amy will have but rough weather for her departure, though the noise of the wind and rain will favour her escape. I put on a rough boating coat, light a weed, and sally forth to my vigil.
The thunder comes growling up from the west, and, presently, bursts into peals like the discharge of heavy artillery. The lightning gleams vividly through the
